In The Ruins Of Our Glory
by AlwaysEatTheRude21
Summary: Through Rhaegar's folly, a kingdom shattered, blood was spilled, and a legacy was burnt to ash. It's up to his children to create something beautiful in the ruins of the Targaryen's glory. When little Rhaenys Potter runs away with Norbert into the forbidden forest, Westeros will never be the same. Fem!Harry/Jon. Incest. Parental!Oberyn&Ellaria. Heavy Martell Focus.
1. When The Smiles Died I

SUMMARY: Through Rhaegar's folly, a kingdom shattered, blood was spilled, and a legacy was burnt to ash. It's up to his children to create something beautiful in the ruins of the Targaryen's glory. When little Rhaenys Potter runs away with Norbert into the forbidden forest, Westeros will never be the same. Fem!Harry/Jon. Dragon Dreams. Incest. Parental!Oberyn&Ellaria. Heavy Martell Focus. Rhaenys survived the sack of Kings landing AU.

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**Changes to Canon: **I've swapped Rhaenys and Aegon around, so Aegon was born first, in Rhaenys's place, and Rhaenys was born second, where Aegon is canonically born. Jon Snow stays the same. Heavy canon manipulation for both the Potterverse and Game of thrones. After all, this fic is my version of an already established AU. I've had to do some heavy weaving to make this even remotely work XD.

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**PART ONE: WHEN THE SMILES DIED.**

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**Late 281 AC: Harrenhal**

**Daria Sand's P.O.V**

When Rhaegar Targaryen, perched proudly on the back of his Rhoynish stallion, galloped past his wife, Elia Martell, and placed the laurel of Love and Beauty in the lap of a fourteen-year-old girl, Elia Martell kept serenely still of face. She sat there, stiff backed, hands folded in her lap, with a straining smile etched upon her lovely face. Daria Sand, a servant under the Princess's retinue, remembered that much. She also remembered the indistinct stare, pinioned to the horizon, distant and detached. As if the Princess had locked herself within, fortified her mind into a lofty castle unclimbable by even this great offence. She remembered the slight clench of Elia's hands, just a twitch of her fingers. She remembered Elia's poise, the tilt of her chin, the glacial composer. Most importantly, Daria Sand, who had known the Princess since she was swaddled in the cradle, remembered Elia's unflagging elegance in the face of such public humiliation.

When Rhaegar Targaryen, the crown Prince with melancholy in his veins and faraway dreams in his eyes, dashed past his wife and placed the laurel of Love and Beauty in the lap of a _fourteen_-year-old girl, Elia's hand came to an unsteady rest upon the slight bump of her heavily clothed stomach. Daria Sand remembered that distinctly. Her mistress was only a few moons-bloods into her pregnancy, and the thickening of her womb was already taxing on her delicate health. After the birth of her first son, Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name and heir paramount to crowned Prince Rhaegar, Elia Martell, who had been sickly since childhood, had been bedridden for months, precariously clasped between this world and the next. Daria, who was old and greying and far beyond high passions and flaring temperament, remembered poignantly the blaze of undiluted rage licking at the flesh of her chest. Her heart had swelled with wrath it had never known existed previously. Here she was, Elia Martell, a princess in her own right, beloved in Dorne and precious, stressed, surrounded by lions and wolves and swaggering stags, being dismissed so openly, so viciously, by the one man she should have been able to rely on. Her own husband. Worst still, he knew of her soft health, her sickness, the trouble Elia had bringing his son into this world, and her knew of the babe now growing in her womb, and still… Still.

When Rhaegar Targaryen, a handsome man with a fools soul, hurtled past his wife and placed the laurel of Love and Beauty in the lap of a fourteen-year-old _girl_, Elia dutifully proceeded with the necessities and obligations bequeathed of her station. She watched the jousts and spars till the very end of the tourney. She smiled and gave congratulations to the procession of knights. She gave her favours to plucky lads and blushing squires, all the while, with one hand on her curving stomach and the other fiddling with the pendant clasped around her neck. It was a pretty thing, that necklace. Wrought from polished gold and chiselled rubies, the Martell emblem glistened in Harrenhal's lax false spring sun. It had been the parting gift Prince Oberyn had given his sister before her own pageant had left Dorne for more temperate pastures in King's Landing, preparing for the wedding of a century. There were only two more replicas in the world, one left with her brother Oberyn, and another with their brother, Doran. From the rumours that had flooded the Water Garden kitchens, Oberyn, as was his way in his younger years, had poisoned the master craftsman who had created such beauties, after he had signed such creations as was tradition with craftsmen of higher classes, to ensure _only _three would ever be created. Of course, it was also rumoured that the craftsmen had killed himself after discovering the prince in bed with his wife and son after handing over the pendants, but those were only semantics. The craftsmen was dead and there was only three necklaces signed on the back by him, Darrion Lockwood, and the rest were petty details. Ever since then, Elia was not seen without that pendant. Not in bed, bath or blistering heat, when the metal got hot enough to burn and singe skin. In the end, in the face of such communal dismissal by an errant husband, it was this pendant that gave Elia the strength to keep her mask on tight and bury the hurt and pain deep within herself.

When Rhaegar Targaryen, who played at princely duties but had the heart and gentleness of a poet, rushed past his wife and placed the laurel of Love and Beauty in the lap of a fourteen-year-old girl, while the wolf snarled at the gesture, when the stag blustered and pushed his chest out in preening anger, while the trout floundered and the lion slinked and hissed, Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne, shone. She shone like the very pendant dangling at her breasts finished from gold and rubies, printed on her families bannermen, the scorch of fire in the sky. Daria Sand knew it was not for her husband, who had so ignorantly rejected her, slighted her and in so, their children, one still in the womb not even having taken its first breath. Nor was it for the crowds around her, vultures and hawks searching for weakness to exploit, to use and peck until the wound festered. Neither was it for her own sake, the damage had been done, her reputation hewn, her standing capped at the knees, her image dirtied and squandered. No, she had kept her lovely smile, elegant grace and shining heat for her children. She had loved them more than any insult or reputation, more than any hurt or ache thrust upon herself. She smiled and played her part for _them._

When Rhaegar Targaryen rode past his wife and placed the crown of Love and Beauty in the lap of a child, nothing but a girl barely in her adolescence, the smiles died, and Elia Martell's fate was sealed. Yet, her legacy would live on, sprouting from that very same bottomless love she had for her children.

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**Next Chapter: **A child is born...

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**A.N: **This fic is going to be told in short, snappy chapters. I already have part one; When The Smiles Died, which focuses on Elia and the lead up to the sack of King's Landing, and just after the sack, written up and I'm just fleshing it out. Part One will likely be spread out between 3-5 chapters, including this one. Having done it this way, chapters should be quicker coming forth, and will be posted, if people like this fic enough, every couple of days, or at least once a week. Having said all this, expect this fic to be a slow-burn, or an Eventual Romance, with the plot as the main focus rather than the couple. I want Rhaenys (Fem!Harry), well established before even meeting Jon, and I want her role to be more than just getting with Jon and running off into the sunset. She has her own Arc, plot and drives. Though, Dragon dreams do play a part in creating a bridge before hand, so Jon won't be completely missing for long. I also want to state that this is NOT a reincarnation fic, nor a Harry born into a different world fic, or regains lost memories or previous life fic. If that's your cup of tea, I'm sorry, but there are plenty of wonderfully, and I really do mean wonderful, written fics out there already following this, and as I'm already doing one common AU, I thought that was enough, lol.

All that being said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I really had fun just sitting down and blasting it out. As always, if you enjoyed, follow, favourite, jump onto this crazy train and take a ride with me, and if you have the time, drop a review! _~AlwaysEatTheRude21_


	2. When The Smiles Died II

**PART ONE: WHEN THE SMILES DIED II**

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**Early 282 AC: Dragonstone. **

**Daria Sand's P.O.V**

The room smelled of blood and spiced incense, the kind expressly imported from Dorne for Elia's comfort, heavy with a keen citrus bite. Septa's were blessing the posts of the soiled bed, anointing the corners with clove and rosemary oils in honour of The Mother, beseeching her blessing, muted prayers and chants filling the room with pitched whispers of old hymns. Elia Martell was sprawled upon the wrinkled face of the bed, loose limbed and sallow, blooms of crimson splashed on white sheets between her legs. She barely had enough strength left to hold the silent bundle in her arms. The Maester was huddled in the far corner of the bedchamber, contriving with Prince Rhaegar, though he was not so silent nor careful enough with his words for the servants, septas or Elia to not overhear.

The child was hale and hearty, despite her noiseless disposition. However, her mother was not fairing as well as the babe. It would be unlikely Elia Martell would survive the week. If, by the grace of The Mother, Elia did endure this latest blow to her mild strength, no more children could be toiled from her womb, for both babe and mother would be collected by The Stranger before the third moons blood was missed. Prince Rhaegar dismissed the Maester with a sullen frown and a restrained, cold voice. If his hushed anger was aimed at the prospect of losing his wife, for Rhaegar did love her in some regard, Daria was sure of that, or whether it was set aflame by the prospect of losing the chance at furthering his dynastic line, Daria was a little less certain about. Yet, the Maester left with a polite, if stiff, incline of his head, retreating to the adjacent room to pilfer and mix his concoctions together in foul poultices and potent potions Elia would later have to consume or smear in hopes of living to see another sunrise.

Even so, to Daria Sand, right in that moment, Princess Elia Nymeros Martell had never looked so beautiful. Ashen and frighteningly pale, sweat sticking hair to neck, shoulders and forehead, kind eyed and weary, Elia should have been far from the vision she was. And through it all, the pain, the hardship, the torturous labour, Elia smiled. She smiled and laughed and cried tears of joy when her babe was finally placed upon her chest, breathing and well.

Of course, Daria could be a little biased, she saw the Princess as one of her own clutch, having birthed no son or daughter herself, she had been in the Princess's envoy for all of Elia's life. One tended to grow attached to such people, she thought. Daria's mother had served Elia's mother in the same compacity, and if her mother's tales were true, her grandmother had stood station to her times equal, and so had been their familial tale since Daria's family had washed up on the shores of Dorne, fleeing for their lives, and House Nymeros Martell had welcomed them and offered beautiful sanctuary. It had only seemed right, to Daria at least, to help raise and protect the youngest generation, as her ancestors had once done. Although, the youngest, Oberyn, had surely sent her grey far sooner in her years than appropriate, and Doran had wrinkled her face quicker than the noon sun, with his sprawling, convoluted plans, even from a young age.

But Elia? Elia would always hold a special place in Daria's heart. Daria had witnessed Elia grow from a chubby babe with sharp teeth, to lithe teen with knobbly knees and gangly arms, flat of chest and more prepubescent boy than blossoming woman, into the Dornish delight she was now. Daria had been amongst the crowd when Elia's betrothal was publicly declared. She had witnessed Elia's extravagant wedding to the Dragon Prince in the beautiful sept of Baelor. Daria had been the one to dab at Elia's forehead with lavender soaked cotton, murmuring small phrases of encouragement, as Elia pushed Aegon Targaryen into the world, screaming and bleeding and ripping.

Daria Sand had been with Princess Elia through it all. From vomit and shit, to cuts and bruises, to weddings and beddings. Where her brothers had aged her, with their playful but often dangerous exploits, or complicated scheming for naught but a toy that caught their eye, soon forgotten most times, Elia made her feel young and bright again, with her vibrant smiles, gentle nature and kind mind. Even so, Daria stood firm in her decision that it was here and now that Elia's beauty was truly at its fullest, a harvest ripe and resplendent. Or, perhaps, that was the influence of the babe clutched in her arms.

Rhaenys Targaryen had been born at the highest point of the moon, The Hour of The Wolf many called it, when the night was darkest, on the end of a rather unseasonably chilly breeze, though the sky was clear and freckled with white stars. The babe was small, scrawny, thinner and more delicate than her brother had been, having been birthed a month early. The blood had been thick on her skin, clots in her hair, but after a swift wash in the heated golden basin readied for such a task, wrapped in black velvet and given to her mothers quivering arms, the babe simply... G_lowed_.

Unlike her older brother Aegon, Rhaenys Targaryen was distinctively and irrefutably a Martell. Her skin, even at this tender age, was sun beaten bronze, a shade darker than her mothers, but a touch lighter than Oberyn's oak or Doran's cinnamon. Her hair, unlike her brothers thin, silken straight silver locks, were rambunctious onyx curls, an explosion of blackened river rush spiralling from scalp, fluffy like a ravens wing. Rhyonish curls, they called them. She had the Martell features, cattish eyes, tilted and sleek, plush lips, heavy arching brows and a widows peak. The only tokens she had taken from her father was the straight, aristocratic nose, slightly upturned, a bit haughty in the wrong light, and the shade of her pupil that peeked out from sweeping ebony lashes. An unsettlingly iridescent and vibrant lilac, like aconite dusted with amethyst. Yes, Daria decided. The babe would be a stunning beauty when she aged, the likes of which to rival her namesake.

Soon enough, the family had gathered at bedside, Rhaegar bringing little Aegon to his mother's side to meet his little sister. The four-year-old stayed close to his father, winding himself about Rhaegar's legs, clutching at leather breeches, though he peeped out curiously at his mother. Rapidly, inquisitiveness won, and the child scrambled for the bed, scaling its frame so he could roost himself at his mother's hip, staring down at the tightly wrapped babe with avid eyes. Elia, even as weak and bloodied as she was, having waged her own sort of war the likes only women could understand, pulled her son to her in a strong, warm embrace, settling the child into the curve of her free arm, pressed flush and safe at her side. Even in immense agony, as weak and frail as a runt kitten, caught in The Strangers web, Elia put her children first and foremost. That was what Daria Sand would always remember of the Princess, right up until her dying day.

"She is a wonderful sight to behold, my love. A truly befitting bearer of Rhaenys's name."

Rhaegar said in that lyrical voice of his, always half tune, mixed melodies and gospel choruses. The man never spoke, Daria thought. Not once. _He sang. _Every word and gesture was poetry, every sentence a sad refrain, layered upon meanings and interpretations and, idly, Daria wondered if anyone, including himself, had ever heard him simply speak. It mattered not. Prince Rhaegar was Prince Rhaegar, loved by all, truly knew by none, and a world away from everyone else. It must have been terribly lonely.

"There must be one more, just one, Elia. The Dragon needs three heads."

And any sympathy, empathy, any sense of warmth or friendship or even pity, Daria had for the Dragon Prince fled her like a flock of crows from a shaken Heart tree. One by one, they took to the sky, little black spots, and were never to be seen again. Up until her last breath, Daria would curse Rhaegar's very name. Rhaegar the fool. Rhaegar the dreamer. Rhaegar the runaway.

Rhaenys was not an hour old, his wife stood in The Strangers shadow, and even she had heard the Maesters advice, and still, he pushed. Perhaps, sadly, pushing was all he knew how to do. Perhaps, given the circumstances of the kingdom, with king Aerys II as he was, he thought he was acting in the interest of Westeros by securing his line. Perhaps, boiled down to the bone, Rhaegar was so caught in dreams of his own conjuring's, prophecies made surreal, that he could not see two fingers passed his own face. _Perhaps._

Daria only saw her mistress, dying and weak, being coerced further into death by her husband who saw not the miracle slumbering on Elia's chest, already here and alive, but fantasised of more. That was the Targaryen in him. More. More. More. The greed of a dragon, be it gold, love or family, was never sated. Daria Sand dropped the incense she was holding, dashing it onto the open sill of the window, shoulders squared and nostrils flaring. She remembered her mouth opening, teeth glinting and tongue keen, poison on her lips, though she would never be sure of what she would have said to the Prince, as Elia's gaze darted to her before fixating on Rhaegar.

"Let us not speak of more children just yet, my Prince. Especially when our new born daughter has not yet been blessed in the light of the seven."

Elia's voice was light, airy, flooded with the gentleness and kindness that everyone noted her for. Yet, after years of practice, Daria understood the prickle underneath her words, as if hiding a thorny underbrush. She was angry. Yet, Elia was shrewd enough to cap that anger. Tears and shouts would get her nowhere in King's Landing, and so, Elia had learned the barbed words of pleasantries and layered meanings. Unfortunately, especially to Daria, Elia was well versed in it now, an expert, dropped against the brutally honest and bluntly faced Elia of her early teens, who had made Oberyn laugh with her witty jests and insults thrown at suitors, and Doran snort to hide his humour at her innocent but direct questioning of foreign dignitaries that visited from far flung lands. Oh, how she had rattled outsiders unused to Dornish wit, silver tongue and sharper minds. Now, Elia only had veiled banalities and unseen connotations.

But use them well she did. The implication was as clear as the stars in this dark night. To accuse, even by off-handily and genially as she had, that Rhaegar was more concerned with fucking and begetting gifts of his loins, more than following the light of the Seven and caring spiritually for his children's futures, in the seat of the sept, where the Crown Prince should be seen as most holy and devout, was of the same vein of levelling the charge of bastardry at any future offspring he did spring from his groin.

"Yes, of course not. Forgive me."

Rhaegar seemingly came back to himself then, the haze in his eyes less pronounced, a quirk of a thin brow, a flash in his pale lilac pupil, a gloomy turn to his bowed lips. Daria, begrudgingly, would admit he really did seem sincere in his mortification and regret at such a slip. To further his point, or perhaps to make peace, Rhaegar elegantly bowed down, laid a sweet and tender kiss upon Elia's sticky forehead, gifted his new-born daughter the same lingering caress of lips, though he stalled longer on her soft skin, Daria swearing she saw a smile flutter across the usually melancholy man's face, and gently brushed an affectionate hand over Aegon's hair.

Yes, with all his faults, misgivings, ill-timings and pensive nature, Rhaegar, as did Elia, loved his children. Daria, even if she cursed him in her final moments, would never, not in the heat of a thousand suns, hold that charge against him. She hoped Rhaegar's love would prove enough. That, in his love for his children, some happiness could be formed afresh, the family could move on from this craggy period, that a future, bright and lively, as Elia deserved, could still be achieved. Daria hoped, and hoped, and hoped, and hoped, Rhaegar's love for his children would be enough to calm him, to slate the dragon greed.

"Let me fetch you some broth from the kitchens, to help you settle your stomach and regain some strength."

Then he was sweeping out of the room, lost to the winding hallways and shadowy passages of Dragonstone. The Septa's went with him, trailing like a wedding veil, having preformed their little ritual to appease and beg the gods, and soon, it was only Daria, a sleeping Aegon, Elia, and a muted Rhaenys left. Daria couldn't tell you how long they were there for, how long the silence lasted, she was busy taking dirty sheets and used clothes away from the bed, to pile and fold before they were taken away to be burnt or scrubbed. But she did remember the cooing of Elia, the bright smile on her face as she finally lifted her eyes from her newest child and pinned them on Daria.

"Isn't she perfect, Daria?"

Daria hummed as she folded another sheet, corner to corner.

"All mothers think their babe perfect, mistress. Most are often wrong. But I will tell you this, me lady. She has the Martell spark. I can sense it from here, I can."

Elia laughed at her remark, the goal Daria was wishing to achieve at the mischievousness. The sound, however, did not sit as well as she thought it would. There was a rattling to her chest that numbed Daria's fingers, a wheeze to her chuckle that made Daria's heart hurt, a straggling cough that made Daria want to weep. If Elia did fall this evening, if Daria had to lay her charge to rest and stand vigil in Dragonstone's sept, she would skin that rat-faced Maester herself, with or without Prince Rhaegar's consent. What the Martell's had done for her family, what they had offered them… That debt could never be repaid, but she could make good as much as she could while she lived.

"Let us pray it is only half the blaze of mine and Oberyn's. If not, I fear my daughter will burn all of King's landing down upon our heads!"

Daria grinned. Elia always sounded so alive, vivacious, _free_, when speaking of her brothers and home, even if she did so less and less these days. It was good for her, to reminisce sometimes. It also allowed Daria to evoke, to dream of hot sands and spiced food, blue water shining in the hot sun, domed ceilings of pure gold, silks and samites swaying over bare legs. Back when time was simple, life was simple, and not this cesspit of politics and heirs, with dragons breathing down their necks. Oh, Daria was getting old. Very old. Her weary bones were aching for home, but here she would stay, with Elia, as was her sworn duty. She had a few more good years in her sagging body yet.

"Aye, she likely will! But fear not, me lady. As with you and your brothers, I will be there to pick the hatchling up by her scruff and set her right. No fear, no, me lady. I'll protect her. You can take Daria's word for it."

The change in the room was so instant, Daria paused with a sheet dangling from her hands, as if she was mimicking a bony sparrow with spread wonky wings, readying to fly. Or plummet to the cracked earth.

"_Do_ you promise me?"

The air had gotten thick, like soup made stout with cheap flour. The nip in the air seemed more conspicuous. There was something there, lurking in the flapping curtains, the shaded corners of the room, under the large bed. A sort of energy, a spike, a prophetic vision long forgotten.

"Promise you what, Princess?"

Steadily, Daria lowered the sheet onto the table, turned to look at her mistress dead on, and Daria remembered how shocked she had been at the face that greeted her. There was a seriousness in the lines of Elia's face that had never been present before, not even when she laid her own parents to rest. There was a fierceness too, tightened in the corner of her cattish eyes, that had never shown face, even in her younger years where she would brawl with Oberyn or argue with Doran over this or that matter. Their fights had gotten so heated sometimes. And right there, glimmering in the far recesses of her gaze, was a scorching protectiveness.

"Promise me that should anything happen to me, no matter what, come Aerys or disease, you will protect her. Promise me, Daria, that you will protect my Rhaenys."

Daria fumbled.

"Is there something wrong, Princess? Has there been a threat? A-"

Elia's gaze slid back to her babe and her face softened insurmountably.

"Rhaegar is not as… Attentive as he was. His mind is full and far away, and he will not speak to me. There's a coldness there, in his heart, one I cannot reach. And his father, King Aerys-"

Elia cut herself off and broke into a fit of coughs. She needn't carry on. Daria understood well and good. It was no secret that King Aerys II, hour by hour, was losing his grip on reality, and he never had a strong grasp on it in the first place. The rumours that were flying around the Red Keep like flies over a bloated corpse, even finding kitchen staff here, in Dragonstone, a league apart, were horrific. With Rhaegar's public humiliation of Elia at the tourney of Harrenhal witnessed by so many, including court officials and his spiralling father, with his slow detachment of her now, even after she had given birth to another heir, was dangerous. As her husband, Rhaegar was meant to be her main front of protection in this vile place, the armour she could use to protect herself as wife to the Prince.

With Rhaegar's insult, and his sluggish disinterest, it left the door for Aery's wide open. A king who made no qualms of voicing his distaste for everything and anyone Dornish abundantly clear. And with his increasing proclivity towards violence of the most horrendous sort, Rhaegar, the fool, the dreamer, the runaway, had practically handed Elia, leashed and bound by marriage, into the gaping maws of his salivating father. Whether Rhaegar had meant to do this, if it was intentional or not, did not matter. This _was_ the result of his actions. Aegon, and now Rhaenys, had the saving grace of their Targaryen blood to keep Aerys at bay. Their mother was afforded no such luxury. Daria Sand delved her hand deep into her skirts pocket, feeling the pads of her fingers brush thin, polished wood.

"I give you my solemn oath, me lady, I shall protect your daughter with me very life if needs be."

Elia smiled, though she kept her focus on her babe, never to see Daria's wild eyes and grim mouth.

"Thank you, Daria. I do not know if I would survive King's Landing without you."

Daria remembered how her hand had tightened around her wand, the lick of magic at her palm, the spark of something deep and true striking in her chest as the words stuck like arrows.

"If I have anything to say, me lady, you'll never have to know."

But then the heavy air was broken by the bedchamber's door creaking, as the Dragon Prince marched back in, tray of steaming food and wine balanced between his pale hands. The family settled together, huddled around the bed, murmuring to one another and Daria? Daria Sand went back to silently folding the sheets, like a good servant. Daria always remembered that moment, because of Elia's broken beauty and hidden strength, because of the babes slumbering side by side, because of Rhaegar's love for his children that shone so true and bright right then, making the often sullen man grin, and laugh and jest, because…

Because it was the last time Daria would ever see the small family together and happy again. As two moon-cycles later, as the family departed from Dragonstone for the Red Keep to present the king and queen with Rhaegar's new heir, were she could be blessed in the sept of Baelor where her forebearers had before her, Rhaegar, with a small company of loyal knights, separated from his wifes procession in the dead of the night, bolted north, abducted a she-wolf, and started a war that would be the ruin of them all. In the end, Daria Sand's hope was proven fatally wrong.

Prince Rhaegar's love simply wasn't enough.

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**NEXT CHAPTER: **Mad King Aerys and the infamous "She smells _Dornish" _ line…

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**THANK YOU **to all those who favourited, followed and reviewed, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and continue to do so with the ones that come along! If you have a moment, drop a review! Until next time, stay beautiful! ~_AlwaysEatTheRude21_


	3. When The Smiles Died III

**PART ONE: WHEN THE SMILES DIED III**

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**Mid 282 AC: King's Landing**

**Daria Sand's P.O.V**

With her husband missing, regions growing hostile, King's Landing taut with tension, and her own health slow to recover, Elia Nymeros Martell did what she did best. She played her part. It was one of the many things Daria had loved about the woman. She attended court, held tea in the gardens, embroidered blankets for the poor and played the act of perfect lady, a true Queen in waiting. Elia was regal. Elia was proper. Elia was elegant…

And Elia was plotting.

Behind this tranquil pool of civility and appropriateness, Elia organized her ladies, met in dappled corners of the Red Keep with the High Septon, bribed and bargained her way to information, and proceeded with Rhaenys's blessing in the Great Sept of Baelor as if there was not another single worry to be had. In fact, Daria thought, Elia had pursued the issue, the anointing of her youngest child, as if this was the sole and chief fear to be had by any and all. Elia doggedly ignored all advice on halting the ceremony until Rhaegar returned, she stubbornly abandoned most protocol that would lengthen the process, and she inflexibly pushed for the closest favoured day to proceed, even if more auspicious days, ones preferred by Queens and Kings to bless their children, were to be had if she waited a moon cycle.

Later, after Elia had died, tales of her ailment after Rhaenys's arduous birth would lead people to believe the Princess had been so fearful she would not live long enough to see her child blessed, that she had righteously fought for the single chance to witness such an act, even if it be the last thing Elia did. They would right poems about Daria's dear Elia. Sonnets of her piety. Lyrics of her faith. Carols of her virtue. Yet, Daria knew better. Elia was as much a viper as her brother, Oberyn. Only, she _let_ the snake charmer believe he was in control.

Rhaenys Targaryen, rightful Princess, birthed from wedlock and vows, had been denied the official first meeting of her grandfather and grandmother, Queen Rhaella and King Aerys. A very significant milestone in the babes life. Elia had been given the news as soon as she had entered the Red Keep, still half bed-ridden, royal decree signed by the King himself. The orders were explicit, unwavering. Princess Rhaenys Targaryen would not be officially welcomed by neither the King nor Queen until she had been blessed in the Great Sept of Baelor like her ancestors.

With this, Elia was quick to understand where she stood, what she had to lose, and what price had to be paid. Daria, who had only enough education befit of her station, saw right through the Mad Kings ploy. The court did as well, as many Ladies and Lords, those who would have sung Elia praises earlier, became aloof towards her, reluctant to be seen next to her, let alone speaking. Daria felt like she was stuck somewhere between crying and laughing in those days. The very same highborn couples who idly stood by as the Queen appeared with fist shaped bruises, scratches and cuts, as they sat in their chairs and did nothing as the Mad King ranted and raved, listened as cries for help echoed out of the King's bedchamber as some poor soul was raped… And they had the gall to turn their noses up at Daria's mistress? The truth was Elia was becoming slowly excommunicated, exiled, sullied, and the first step in this front of attack had been, unfortunately, her daughter.

Conversation had reached King's Landing of the princess's birth, along with her health and attributes, _her Dornish looks_, long before Elia, babe and retinue had ridden in through the northern gates. Words and stories were faster than horse and wind, after all. Reports of Rhaegar's swift departure was also running rampant through the streets, lighting up taverns and brothels with hushed gossip. It was no secret that he had left his wife and infant on the King's road, hardly accompanied, deserted. The killing blow had come in the form of a rumour, spreading south from the North, iced and prickling. Lyanna Stark, the she-wolf, the very girl who Rhaegar had gifted the crown of Love and Beauty, had disappeared from her bedchambers not but two days prior to Elia's arrival into King's Landing.

One report alone was enough to cause trouble. Rhaenys's more Martell features, and Dornish skin, would ire the king with his irrefutable distaste for Elia's people. He had only agreed to their marriage, Elia's and Rhaegar's, because there had been no female Targaryen to wed his son to, a long-standing tradition in House Targaryen, and so he could dip into the deep coppers of the Martell treasury, to spend on his increasing interest and experimentations with wildfire. And, Daria was sure, it was also to snub his long-time friend, Tywin Lannister, by dismissing his daughter Cersei from Rhaegar's match.

However, if Rhaegar had been there, with his new child, where he _should_ have been, the king would be trapped, left only to his revulsion and clawless scowls. Yet, the she-wolf was missing, her brother, Brandon Stark, according to a tavern wench, was riding for King's Landing this very moment, and with the subsequent parting of Rhaegar, his and the she-wolf's previous encounter, why her beloved brother Brandon was riding to the Red Keep and not to her earlier betrothed, it was not hard to put two and two together. Either Brandon Stark was marching because his sister was missing, Rhaegar was the suspect, and the Stark boy wanted retribution or the return of his sister, neither would be granted, for there was only one reason Rhaegar would take Lyanna Stark, to wed and bed, or, Rhaegar had secured a second wife through her older brother, and the two had been wed already, and Brandon was marching to bring the glorious news. Either way, Rhaegar had taken another woman, and this had given King Aerys all he needed.

No doubt, in his addled mind, Rhaegar was, to Aerys, looking to replace Elia with the northern girl. Perhaps Rhaegar was. It would not be the first time a Lord, or even a Prince, had bemoaned and tried to relinquish his wedding vows in hopes of finding more fertile ground to plant his seed. Furthermore, in ages past, it was not unheard for a Targaryen to take multiple wives, securing a prosperous dynastic line when the heir pool grew stagnant and thinning, even if this tradition had been dead for centuries, and even then, it was normally reserved for those with Targaryen blood only, which both Elia and the she-wolf obviously lacked. Nevertheless, whether Rhaegar wanted Elia gone or not mattered none, for Aerys did, and as more senile shark than dragon, he smelled blood in the waters.

If King Aerys stalled meeting the youngest princess, Rhaenys, long enough for Rhaegar to breed the Stark girl, or for Brandon to bring news that Rhaegar already had, Aerys could use the excuse of Rhaenys not being blessed, and the recent new marriage of his son, as just motive to excuse the babe from House Targaryen all together. In short, the one Dornish Targaryen, who Aerys likely viewed as too tainted by outsider blood, how else could she look so Dornish, Daria scoffed, would be wiped from the line of succession. Not being able to strike at Elia without knowing Rhaegar's full plans, Aerys was using her child to get to her, and subsequently, Dorne. He wanted them to know their place, Daria was sure. To be reminded that they, with their foreign ways, darker skin, who had never bent the knee to his ancestors, a sore spot amongst many families above the Red Mountains, would never be truly accepted by the crown. Oh, the Targaryens could fuck and breed their own brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, they could marry Baratheon's and Tyrells and Starks, they could burn cities to the ground and raze great Houses until their names were forgotten, but to have a Targaryen who looked like a Martell? Unfathomable. At least, to Aerys it was.

Worst of all, he was using a babe to send his message loud and clear. _Elia's babe._ Rhaenys wouldn't be a bastard. She wouldn't be a Targaryen either. She would be something other, lost, alone. She would be nothing. No prospects. No safety. _Nothing._ No respectable family would marry her, for she would not bring the Targaryen name, and might just bring their wrath. No court or hearth would house her, for what would she bring them? But as somebody who still retained royal blood, she would become an open target, a feast for vultures and troubled Lords who wished to strike at the King, but could not afford to, too cowardly, who would settle their anger on something,_ someone_, defenceless. Utmost excruciatingly, the Mad King would never let Rhaenys go where she would be afforded protection, love, money and home. _Dorne._ He would keep her here, in this decayed ruin of morality, as a living message and leash to Dorne and the Martell's.

Nevertheless, Elia Nymeros Martell would not let her daughter, a Princess, be cast down so easily in the face of a mad-man's hatred. She bribed ladies and kitchen staff, with the last of her Dornish jewels from home, to tell her of the days his Grace would be, otherwise, indisposed. Fortuitously, or perhaps more accurately, cunningly, King Aerys would be _very_ busy with small council meetings on the very day Elia chose to bless her daughter.

Queen Rhaella Targaryen, who had always been fond of Elia, soon began to appear in court without her rubied circlet, an item she had adorned since she was wed and crowned herself. Daria thought, well, it was no luck that the High Septon, who up until that point had outrightly refused to bless the child, in any compacity, until he had word from King Aerys, was equally seen with a new rubied necklace the very day Queen Rhaella was noted for missing her circlet. Upon the next meeting with the High Septon wearing his new necklace, Elia hoping for one last persuasion, found she needn't have tried. He, with a throat of dazzling cerise, was all too happy to agree to blessing on the very day Elia chose. That night, Elia had sent a banquet of freshly plucked crimson roses to the Queen's rooms. A single ruby was sent back, the last from the circlet, with a short, ever-telling note.

_I look forward to meeting my granddaughter. _

It was also no coincidence, Daria knew, that Ashara Dayne, a close friend to Elia, had rode in to King's Landing on the very day of Rhaenys's blessing, for a short three-day stay to, in her words, pay homage to his Grace for house Dayne in these troubling times. While the guards and personages were busy setting up Ashara and her men in Maegor's Holdfast, readying an authorised meeting between her and the King, Elia had the perfect chance to slip out and into the streets of King's Landing, making her way to the Great Sept of Baelor relatively unseen. Nothing, not even the wine someone chose to drink, was coincidence. Not in a place like King's Landing.

When the time finally came for Rhaenys's blessing, it was a quiet, minor affair. They could not afford to have a grand display, alike Elia's son Aegon's blessing, should they draw the eye of the Mad King from the small council chambers. No, it was simple, a small gathering of Dornish dignitaries making the majority, Queen Rhaella's own ladies and servants who she sent in her stead, the only way she could be present without garnering attention from Aerys, and some small House members from loyal families to play witnesses and sign the scroll dictating Rhaenys's welcoming into the light of the Seven.

Yet, it had been beautiful, nonetheless. The warm sun had made Visenya's hill, where the Great Sept of Baelor stood, glisten like jade. The surrounding plaza which enclosed the sept, bricked by slates of pure white marble, sparkled in the light, sprinkled in brilliant stardust and veins of silver hue. There, in the middle of the plaza, stood the statue of Baelor the Blessed, plainly robed and barefoot, as was Elia, in ritual for her daughters blessing. He stood tall and proud, wrought from the same silver white marble, serene upon his raised platform. Most said his face, elegantly chiselled, was a study in benevolence, but, with the sun shining just so, Daria thought he looked a bit impish.

The sept itself was a feat of architecture, added to and moulded by Targaryens throughout the generations. The lofty dome of the sept was made from gold and crystal, enchanted in its own majestic way, with seven crystal towers rising out from the bedded dome, hollowing out a seven-pointed star. When a King or Queen died, all towers would ring their bells, a cacophony of gonging that screamed their departure back to the Seven.

When Daria came back to King's Landing, upon seeing how far Aerys had fallen to lunacy, even through the short time Elia and her envoy were gone to birth Rhaenys at Dragonstone, Daria would sit at her mistress's window, look out at the murky shadows and pray, oh how she would pray, to hear just seven bells ringing. None ever did, but, frivolously, Daria wondered how many other servants, Lords, Ladies, perhaps the Queen herself, had given the same prayer that night. If the Gods were out there, in this very sept as the faithful claimed, they were not listening. Mayhap they never had and never will.

Through the prodigious arched doors was the Hall of lamps, a vaulted ceiling suspended with globes of coloured glass, crimson, mauve, jade, periwinkle, too many colours to count. Some Daria could not even name. Elia and her procession took their time walking the long Hall, entranced, and, a little, Daria was too. Not because of the beauty, for it was a beauty to behold, but because the colours lapping, swaying from ceiling, reminded, once again, Daria of home. In Sunspear, the sept was swept with fine silks, chiffon, painted samites, dip-dyed velvets, suspended on walls, fastened to ceiling, draped on floors until, when inside, the sun shone through and lit the colours to life and you were swept away in a soft sea of cloth. It wasn't as rich as King's Landing's elegant glasswork, pricey crystal, or extravagant gold, but it felt more… Personal. Intimate. Less magnificent demonstration and more private sanctuary.

Near the exit of the Hall of lamps and into the sept-proper, Elia, as was expected of her, had pulled her hood down, while balancing Rhaenys in her arms, Aegon toddling by her dusty feet. Turning around, Elia took to her nearest maid, who was holding a plain, oak box upon a plush blue cushion. Opening it, delving her hands in, Elia pulled free her own little glass lamp. Gently, Elia gave it to the Silent Sister awaiting by the doors.

It was not one of the largest lamps, nor one of the most intricately made, for Elia had to keep the creation of it secret from the ever-watchful eyes of the Red Keep, and therefore, had to cast and form it from her own hands, but it was lovely in its own misshapen, quant way. It was leaded, with remains of crimson and gold coloured glass, broken shards Elia had scavenged from smashing her own lamps, forming bursts of bright stars, jagged and scarred. Of course, Elia not being a craftsman, let alone a glassworker of any note, the little lamp had broken multiple times until, in the dead of night, out of the eye of her mistress, Daria had spelled the thing to hold itself together. It had been worth Elia's smile and shout of joy in the morning when she saw, finally, the lamp had held true during the night for the first time.

The Silent Sister bowed over the lamp in her hand, and in turn, gave Elia a fat little tallow candle, yellowed with age, oiled and slick. Mutedly, the Silent Sister retreated from the door, leaving way for the slight party to enter. By the end of the night, that little lamp, distorted and hastily scraped together by a mother's love, fastened by magic not of this world, would join its ancestors upon the glass sky of the ceiling, lit and bright. Laying in the dewed grass, huddled by a great tree, bleeding and dying, Daria would wonder if Rhaenys would ever get the chance to look upon this ceiling and see her own lamp staring back. She hoped so. It had given Daria comfort, in her last moments, to think that Rhaenys would get home, to see something shaped by her mother's devotion. But, then again, that was too far ahead, wasn't it? Yes. At the time, Daria had only been happy her spell had worked, she was never the best at magics, only really could perform the basics, and joyful that the little lamp would join the sky of its brethren.

Soon, their small party had been rushed through the double-doors and into the sept-proper. The room was white-marbled, a pulpit in the very middle for the High Septon to greet his congregation, with seven sided walls, each with a colossal window of coloured glass depicting one of the Seven. The golden, domed ceiling made it feel like the sun itself was baring down upon their heads, ever-watchful, ever-burning. In front of the windows were their respective statues and alters, offerings of food, incense, drink, flowers and trinkets flooding the ground at their feet, candles crammed into the little birdboxes of their pedestals. You could always tell the favoured gods, the Maiden and the Warrior, for their plinths were awash with fire, for each candle was a child blessed in their name. The small group amassed into the pulpit, descending the long stairs, but wondered no further. Daria, gently, took hold of Aegon's tiny hand, pulling him away from his mother. The boy startled but gave no cry. His mother must have told him what was to happen.

Elia, dusty and weary from the slog from the Red Keep to the Great Sept of Baelor, greeted the High Septon with a sluggish bow of her head. In return, the Septon bowed and, with a candle from his own hand, lit the one in Elia's. Now, here, was where things took a rather odd turn. As was customary, the High Septon began to recite the prayer of consecration, as the witnesses began, one by one, signing the scroll held aloft by a small table in the middle of the pulpit. Once that was done, it was up to Elia, Rhaegar if he had been present, to choose the patron god of her child, to place her candle in his compartmented dais, so he or she may watch over the child and keep the flame, a representation of their life, strong in the warmth of their shadow. Once that was done, from the brazier at the gods alter, Elia would pluck a pinch of ash to smear on the child's head, so the gods flame, in turn, would light their way and live within them.

Aegon had been blessed in the shadow of the Warrior, as was befitting a first-born Prince. Rhaegar had been blessed in the shadow of the Father. Queen Rhaella the Maiden. King Aerys the Father. Their parents had been blessed by the Mother and the Maiden respectively. Since strict records had begun, every Targaryen had been blessed in either the Mother, Father, Maiden or Warrior's ash. The Crone and the Smith both held hearty pools of blessed from the common folk too. So, when the signing and chanting had ended, as Elia began her journey to the most shaded area of the sept, alight by no candles, no flowers, trinkets or paper dolls given at empty alter, Daria Sand was not the only one present who became soundlessly alarmed.

Still, no on intervened as Elia Nymeros Martell, standing before the statue of The Stranger, the only one made from black marble, gently placed her daughters candle in his empty podium, directly underneath his feet. No one so much as uttered a gasp as Elia Nymeros Martell, dressed like a beggar, bent down, plucked up the dark ash from his bronze brazier and gently smeared it over a sleeping Rhaenys's forehead. No one gave a word of argument against the action, still shocked, when Elia marched back to the group, chin tilted just so in pride.

The Stranger, the face of death and the unknown, his statue veiled with black silk, with a crowned skull clasped between skeletal hands, only had one eye visible, bright and bejewelled in sunken socket, shaped like a star, watched on silently. Daria remembered staring up into that eye for a long, long while, still stunned at Elia's choice. Children simply weren't blessed with death as their protection. It seemed too contrary, a beg for disaster, and Daria wondered what, if any, would come of it. For Daria, with magic in her blood and wood in her hand, who lived and breathed the magic from far off lands as she had with this one, knew words and oaths, no matter how small, were not something easily broken. The Stranger's lone eye seemingly, daringly, twinkled back at her from that void of an unfleshed socket. All shock was quickly abandoned, however, when the doors opened to a row of gold cloaks, heralding a vicious, slurred shout.

"What is the meaning of this!"

And there he was, the King, Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, shouldering his way through the brocade of towering Kingsguard, stumbling down the steps of the sept-proper. Daria, and Elia, had not seen the King since the tourney of Harrenhal, and although only but near a year had passed, the man had aged fifty. His long hair was unkempt, dirty and greasy, tangled into dreads and knots of dull silver. Bits of food and wine tints clumped his beard. His filthy robes, bejewelled but wrinkled and stained, hung off him in odd angles, enveloping his gaunt frame. His fingernails were nothing but cracked yellow claws, serrated and chipped. On his head, sitting unsteady, was the crown of Aegon the Unworthy.

Queen Rhaella was quick to follow this creatures path, for he was no longer a man, not to Daria. The Queen, unfortunately, was not fairing any better. Her own robes were clean, but crumpled, hastily adorned. Her hair swung clean and brushed, but braided in an easy plait that sung at her hips. On her face was a bloom of bruises, yellow, blue, purple, lining her jaw, around her eye, by her temple, and there, on the side of her neck, just as her braid swung, Daria caught sight of a rather nasty bite mark, deep, crusted… Infected and inflamed. She was shouting after her husband, calling him her love, pleading, reaching for the sleeve of his tunic, but he ignored the soft cries of his wife. His eyes had already found Elia.

Elia dropped to her knee's, cradling Rhaenys close to her chest, hiding the babes face, eyes cast to the ground, bunched and prostrated. Daria, as much as she wished to stand beside her mistress, knew her job true, and so, pulled little Aegon close to her skirts, behind the cotton, obscured, as she pushed them both into the safety of the small crowd. The boy cried and, perhaps a little harshly, Daria's hand clamped around his mouth, muffling the high-pitched whine. He wiggled and groaned, but Daria's grip never lessoned. Elia, the viper in ladies skin, had given Daria explicit order should this very moment come to pass. Daria would stay hidden, behind, with Elia's son, and no matter what, come execution or degradation, Daria was to get Prince Aegon out of this sept and away from the King.

"Your Grace, I was simply doing as you wished. You said you could not meet your granddaughter until she was blessed, and here, she has been."

The only one bold enough, strong enough, to speak up and break the deafening silence King Aerys yell had created was the Princess on her knees. Not the High Septon, who was supposed to be the voice of morality and reason. Not the Lords and Ladies present, who were meant to be brave figureheads of their houses. Not even the noble and honourable Kingsguard, who were meant to protect and serve the realm. But a Princess, weak and ill from a hard birthing bed, alone and singled out, with her infant daughter clasped in her arms. Then, she raised her eyes, met King Aerys head on, and Daria saw, really saw, the fire Elia held inside herself. A fire that had always been there, but everyone, including Daria herself, overlooked near daily.

It was blistering, scorching, unquenchable. It raged in her dark eyes like the Dornish sun, brighter than this golden domed sept, hotter than dragons breath or wildfire, and no one, not King, death, burning or exile could dampen that fire down because, in the end, it was the heat of a mother. In that moment, she was a coiled python protecting her hatchling, and Daria… Daria had never been prouder and more honoured than to call this woman her mistress.

"Is this not what you wanted, your Grace?"

It was a taunt. There was no other way to describe Elia's intense, neat, sturdy tone. A dare. Silently, she was telling the King, who was more phantom than man, that she knew exactly what he was doing and here, with her, she had won their game of chess. Aerys swirled upon the red-faced floundering High Septon.

"Is this true? Has the child been blessed?!"

Spittle flew from the High Septon's quaking mouth, struggled, fat cheeks wobbling as his eyes darted around, looking for someone, anyone, to sweep in and save him. His hand jumped to the necklace around his throat.

"T-the Que-"

Elia stood, cutting off the High Septon swiftly with a pointed hand towards the scroll still open on the tiny table.

"Rhaenys Targaryen still has the ash upon her skin, and as you can see, the scroll has been signed and sealed by sigil. It is _done_."

Thankfully, the King was distracted by Elia's brazenness, her unshaking bearing, to overlook the blubbering High Septon's referral to his own wife in the subversion to get Rhaenys blessed. A terrible quiver took hold upon the King's emaciated frame, his hands clenching as much as his claws allowed him, nostrils flaring as his pale lilac eyes lit with something menacing. Spit dribbled down his chin, into the wiry hair of his beard, as his yellowed teeth snarled.

"Guards! Seize the-"

Daria's hand jolted to her wand, still hidden in her pocket, gaze flickering between a pallid Aegon, who had begun to silently cry, and Elia, with her shoulders squared proudly. She had felt torn then, Daria remembered that, ripped asunder, split and leaking. She had promised Elia Aegon would be her first and foremost concern that day, his protection to be her only thought, and yet, her mistress was seconds away from being slain, and Daria had promised her brothers to protect Elia, no matter what and-… But as Elia had stood and forfeited herself for Queen Rhaella, the Queen repaid the favour. In a flash of silver and onyx, the Queen dashed to the pair, haggling the babe from a wide-eyed Elia.

"Yes, this is exactly his Grace's decree! Is it not, dear husband? And oh, isn't she a precious girl… Please, my love, look. We must rejoice! Yes, rejoice! His Grace is correct! Guards, seize the banners and fly them over the Red Keep, to let the smallfolk know a new Princess is here! And ring the bells! And send word to Dorne, the Martell's must be informed they too have a new child under their legacy. They have been such help these last moons, haven't they, my love? Yes, they must be included in these fine celebrations."

Rhaella gently bounced the babe in her arms as she, step by hesitant step, made her way to the King. There was moisture in her eyes, diminishing the sweetness of her smile. Rhaella's hand shook as she reached down and, gently, pulled away the swaddling cloth of the babe, showing, for the first time, Rhaenys's face to the crowd around them. The babe was awake, unblinking, eyes the shade of sizzling violet, dusk set on fire. There was to be no denial of who's the babe father was, not with eyes like hers. Gradually, the shaking form of the King lessoned to nothing but a subdued tremor as he glared down at the babe. The heavy tension in the sept finally broke as Aerys raised one contorted hand, more beast than human, and waved it in front of his face, as if he smelled something foul.

"It reeks of _Dornish_ filth. Get it out of my sight."

That would be the only thing Aerys would ever get to say to his granddaughter. But, it was _all _Aerys said, and that was what mattered. There were no knotted orders for her seizure. No wildfire baths. In the end, with Rhaenys blessed, witnessed and having been presented to him by his own wife, there was nothing else Aerys could say. Rhaegar was not there to protect his child, but his mother, as beaten and broken as she was, bitten and bleeding, had done what her son had not.

Rhaella had also subtly reminded her mindless husband of the debt they owed to the Martell's, for their continued backing of the crown, especially now with the seven kingdoms tight with pressure. If Aerys slew Elia, killed her child, denounced Rhaenys without reason, even flimsy justification as was her not being blessed, his biggest contributor, the Martell's, would be lost to him. They would not take any threat to their own lightly. With Lyanna gone, Brandon marching, and lines quickly being drawn, King's Landing could not allow being boxed in with the south revolting too. Aerys, as far as he was already gone, was not so lost to be blind to these facts.

"A true Targaryen if I ever did see one. Congratulations, Princess Elia. We are honoured to have a fine new child under our name."

Queen Rhaella said stoutly as she handed the babe back to her mother, who pressed Rhaenys tight to her chest once more. Only when Aerys snatched up the arm of his wife, ordered his guards back to the Red Keep, and left in a sullen cloud of furry, did Daria's hand fall from Aegon's face. Aegon ran for his mother, sniffling, as Elia shushed and cooed, bending down to heave her trembling son up and into her arms, next to his sister, who he promptly snuggled into. When the sept-proper doors clanged shut, Elia nearly fell to her knees. Daria, heart beating like a hummingbird, barely managed to catch her mistress in time. Elia's fire had fled, leaving nothing but opulent smoke, heady but choking. Croakily, she muttered to Daria.

"He will _not_ harm my children. Not _my _children. I will not let him, Daria. _I will not_."

Daria Sand wished she could ease Elia's worries. She wished she could tell her mistress that everything was going to be well. She wished she could say that, this, and everything else, would soon be a distant nightmare. But Daria was no liar, she never had been. This, sadly, she felt was just the beginning of a long, dark road. This, what Rhaella had done, had tempered Aerys presently, and Daria would forever be thankful to the Queen for what she had done, but that was all. There were other ways, secret ways, assassins and plots, for Aerys to use to get to Elia and Rhaenys, ones without his name involved. He may not have striked then, but that didn't mean he would not later. Daria Sand simply held her mistress tighter, unsure and fearful of what was to come.

All the while, staring down at them through his lone jeweled eye, was the Stranger.

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**Next Chapter: **Daria Sand has to break an oath to keep another...

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Well, these chapters seem to be growing, as they always do XD. We're also drawing to a close on Daria and Elia, as the next chapter will be the last in Part One. Then, there's only one chapter, told from Oberyn's P.O.V before we get to the well deserved juicy part; Little Rhaenys!

So, what do you guys think so far? Make sure to drop a review! Is anyone else as excited as me for the new season?


	4. When The Smiles Died IV

**PART ONE: WHEN THE SMILES DIED IV**

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**Late 282 AC: King's Landing; Maegor's Holdfast.**

**Daria Sand's P.O.V**

"Please, my dearest friend, you _must _take her, and take her now."

Daria Sand lingered in the narrow hallway, a spectre of herself, haggard and gaunt, shrouded in a nook of shade and red stone and cloying dust. The dead roamed down here, she thought. Prowled for living souls to haunt. The dead liked the dark as much as they liked dire deeds. Feeding on the desperation of hopeless men, the old maids tale went, and there was no place darker, no more a dire need, than what brought Daria down into the bowels of Maegor's Holdfast that night.

Her hands were twined together, knotted knuckle and weaving finger, wringing like wet bed-linens, fighting the urge to reach for her wand. What would she do with that wand?

She did not know.

Nonetheless, she _did_ know magic buzzing at her fingertips brought her comfort. With the person before her, dressed as they were, begging as they did, Daria knew she would need all the respite she could get.

The woman before her was cloaked, hood drawn high and forwards, masking a pleasingly beautiful face. Something between the folds of her robe cooed, and with it Daria's heart thundered.

"My Princess, surely there is another way! The Targaryen army will reach-"

"It is _because_ of the Targaryens that you must take her!"

The hooded woman spat the name as if it was poison most foul. Perhaps it was, Daria thought. Perhaps there was no other venom fouler than that of having Targaryen blood. The Mother knew, here and now in the dawn of a dying age, the Targaryen's had spilled enough blood to fill a thousand rivers. Worst still, it appeared they were intent on filling a thousand more before this day was done.

Brother killing brother.

Father slaying son.

Mother selling daughter.

And a King, touched by lunacy, resting upon on all these shattered bones.

If the Targaryens could not keep the throne, Daria was sure, they would see the next King sit upon nothing but ashes.

"I do not understand, mistress."

Elia Martell dithered, powerless to stay still, almost dancing, back and forth, left and right, around, flickering like the lit torch perched on the wall before them. Daria had not seen the Princess in such a state since the merry days of old, where, young, free, careless, she had accidentally broken her brother Oberyn's arm after getting too rowdy in a play fight.

She had spent days hovering at his bedside like a dragonfly, beside herself, apologies tumbling from her lips as swift as her tears had flooded her face. There had been no need. Oberyn, Daria knew all to well, would forgive Elia if she cut out his tongue, she need only flash her eyes at him.

Sweet Mother of Mercy, how did they, those children Daria so adored, those golden, hazy days of summer, turn to…

Turn to _this. _

One separated so far from home, obscured in the cloak of a servant, babe pressed tightly to her chest, begging for Daria to-… To…

"I caught him, Daria. I caught _him." _

Elia shuffled closer, voice dropping low.

"King Aerys has not made his displeasure at my daughters more… Dornish traits unknown. If she stays, she forfeits her life."

Anything but… But _this. _Daria would walk over mountains of broken glass if only Elia asked her to, and perhaps she too was like Oberyn, all too ready to leap. Yet, if she did what the Princess was asking of her now, if she did what she was begging…

She could not leave her mistress.

Not here.

Not now.

Daria had vowed to Elia's brothers she would keep the Princess safe.

She had vowed to Elia she would keep Princess Rhaenys safe.

So many oaths, tugging, tearing her apart.

What was she to do?

"Princess, King Aerys, as addled as he is, would not harm his Heirs children. Rhaegar will-"

The pleading stopped. In its cold wake came colder fury.

"And what will Rhaegar do, Daria? Where_ is_ my husband? I will tell you where he is. He has _left_. He has run away with a _child_. He has abandoned his own children here, entrapped, under the ever-volatile eye of his foolish father. We are hostages. Nothing but prisoners of war to keep my kin from marching to the King's door, and Rhaegar, _brilliant _Rhaegar, knows this. And still… Still he _left_. Do not speak to me of Rhaegar, Daria. For I find even his name sickens me these dark days. May he too, in his time of need, as he as forced his children to bare, standalone undefended. If The Father truly knows justice, he will make it so, and in payment I swear, swear upon all that is sacred, if Rhaegar will not protect his children, if he will not put them first, I _will._"

Devoured by her fury and frenzy and fever, Elia's free arm swept out the fold of her frayed cloak, arching in a long gesture to cast her vow to the sky. Daria saw her hand, long fingered, thin and delicate, bronze… Bloodstained bandage hastily tied around palm.

Her hand shot out, seized, brought the limb close. It trembled in her hold, quivered like a leaf blown free of its branch.

"Princess, you are wounded!"

Elia snatched her hand away, not cruelly, but as though she could not bear to be touched, that such a simple kindness in these trying times felt too foreign to remember. A hound whipped too many times often learns to fear the hand that feeds too.

Yet, this was not a hound.

This was no ordinary woman.

This was the Princess of Dorne, Elia Nymeros Martell, and in the grotesque face of pain and fear and death, she only stood taller, and that, this image of Elia garbed in a tattered cloak, hiding in the bowels of Maegor's Holdfast after slipping from her guards with the help of Queen Rhaella, would be forever how Daria would remember her Elia.

A Queen with no crown but more dignity, purity, grace, and strength than any man could hope to have. She was as Rhaegar feigned he was, true of heart. She was as the Wolf Lord of the North strived to be, a being of honour. She was as the Lannister's could never reach, compassion without motive.

She was as she always was, _her _Elia, that little girl Daria watched dance across the Water Gardens, who plucked oranges from the orange grove and gave them to the poor of Sunspear, who nursed sick kittens back to health. She was all that, Elia Martell, and so much more. She was that little girl, a woman grown, and three days hence, she would be dead.

Only the good die young, the saying went, and Elia was gone long before her time.

It was silent for a long while, a tense surge of ambiguity. Elia broke it eventually, no place left, even in this cool alcove, to hide from the darkness creeping like strangling vines across Westeros, her voice as light and pale as a flap of a baby birds wing.

Broken like one too.

"There was a man, a kitchen boy, I found him in Rhaenys's nursery. I-… He had a pillow in his hands, standing over her cradle… He was lowering it, and I-… I-… I did what I must to protect my children."

Daria's eyes slid closed, and she found it hard, so very hard to open them again as a great flood of air deserted her lungs. What had this land wrought for her charge? Only sorrow, grief and ruin. Surely, even King Aerys was not so far gone to… To…

But he _was._

There was not a depravity the King did not indulge in these days. Sins of the filthiest sort. Rapes of every kind. Curses only the maddest of men could dream of. And this was where Elia, her Elia, placed her. Astride a burgeoning gorge, feet slipping on cracking earth. On one side laid a broken vow, another the death of the woman she loved best.

"You believe King Aerys ordered the boys actions?"

The question was redundant. Daria knew it. Elia knew it. If there was one person, only one, in this cesspool of the Crownlands, who would wish to see the only Dornish Targaryen perish, who had the power to see it through, it was he, the King.

Yet, she had to ask, because if he had not, if this was not by the Kings crooked hand, then Daria still had a chance. She could stay, and Elia would be safe, and-

"My servant overheard the King asking the kitchen staff if the _spear _had been snapped not but two hours ago. It was him, Daria. We both know this."

There had to be another way.

Any other way.

"He _will_ discover what you have done. He will be angry. Mistress, Princess, my Lady, please-"

"And I will take a thousand cuts and lashes, I will burn in wildfire in his court of jesters and mockeries, I will take every humiliation he bears upon me with every speck of grace I have, if but my children will _live_. Daria, please, you promised me once, upon my birthing bed, that you would protect her come what may. The may has come, and now you must keep your vow as I must mine."

Sensing a faltering mind, Elia surged in closer.

"Aerys will not hurt me. His anger will be tempered and engrossed by Robert Baratheon and the Stark, for they have now seized the Stepstones and march closer by the day. He will be too paranoid and hectic to think much of the Dornish Princess locked in her tower. I will be safe… for a while. Long enough for my brothers to do what they must and arrive. But please, my daughter does not have the same time I do. Take her."

The world beneath her feet split open like a ripe fruit, and Daria plummeted into the void.

Here was her choice.

Her choice that would or could make and break an age.

She could refuse the Princess her plea, stay, and protect the babe, along with Elia, as best as she could here, as she had promised the Martell brothers, or she could take the babe, dash for Sunspear, and leave her mistress to the hands of the Crone, and see where fate would land, as she had promised Elia.

Elia would never forgive her-

Daria could never forgive herself if-

She chuckled. Loudly. Semi-sob, half-hysterics. Daria was only fooling herself, as if she really had a choice to begin with. She had given her word, an unbreakable vow, by her wand and her magic to protect that babe hidden in Elia's cloak, and she would see it through.

Even if it was the most painful promise she was ever going to keep.

Even if it killed her.

Because Elia, sweet, sweet Elia would do the same for her.

Elia would do the same for anyone, should they seek her help.

Daria nodded weakly, and sure as the sun would rise come morn, she felt the Stranger loom above them. One action, one slight tilt of her head, and history itself shifted beneath their feet like sand washed away in a tide.

If only Daria had known that at the time.

For the first time in many days, perhaps months, a smile lit up Elia's face in all the glory of a sunbeam peeking through a rain cloud. Shirking her cloak away from her chest, Daria saw what she knew to be there, bundled in old clothes and strips of torn bed-sheets. A babe, slumbering, cooing in their dreams.

A Princess unwise about the lengths a mother's love would go.

Gently, so gently, Elia slid the babe into Daria's lax hold. She was light in her arms, light and small and tragically beautiful, with that russet skin and dark curl, though, at a few months old, a strip of white hair was beginning to rear its ugly head at her temple, a brush of ice amongst the fire of her Martell blood.

Still, little Rhaenys slumbered on, and Daria had the strange urge to shuffle the babe awake. Look, child, she would say. Look child, look at your mother, look and remember. Remember the slope of her face, the warmth of her embrace, the brush of a kiss from her lips and remember, child, remember Elia Martell, and know what it is to be a Queen.

Daria did none of this.

Daria only held the babe and, silently, wept.

"Stay off the Kings road, for the armies shall meet there in three moons. When this war is finished, if I still breathe in Kings Landing, I shall find you and ride to you. If I-… If I or the Targaryens should fall, take her to Dorne. Take her to my brothers, Doran or Oberyn. I've sent a missive ahead of you, carried by my most trusted men. They know to expect you and Rhaenys, should the worse come to be, at Sunspear five days hence. Do not give her up for anyone else, no matter what they say, or what letters they bring. Promise me you will not hand my daughter off to any but me, Doran or Oberyn."

"I promise."

Only with one last wet oath did Elia finally relinquish her hold on the babe, fully leaving her in the safety of Daria's hands. She did not miss, so quiet, the groan as if doing so, letting go, pained Elia more than any dagger to the breast could.

"Good… Good..."

"What about prince Aegon, mistress? If Rhaenys has to-"

"Aegon is safest here for now. The roads will be dangerous for his Targaryen looks, and Aerys offers little protection, but protection it is, for Aegon. My daughter is not afforded the same luxury. Should the Targaryens fall… I have plans in place for Aegon."

Daria recalled the knock on Elia's chamber door, late into the night. She remembered the glimpse of fine silk, pale skin, and a hairless head, hushed words exchanged in the blanket of stars, lit only by the scones on the wall and a small open window, as Elia ordered her women away so she may have a private word. Her gut roiled.

"Mistress, no. You cannot trust the spider-"

"And yet, I must! For my children! Please Daria… _Please."_

Anew, she nodded. A sharp thing, up and down and end.

Suddenly, it was the end of everything.

No more words, oaths, or sweet nothings to give.

This was the end, and it was hard, and it was painful, and it was tragic.

Feeling the time of departure drawing nearer, Elia, with hands that trembled so viciously, reached up to her neck and unclasped her necklace. She thumbed it in her palm for a moment, felt the weight, the warmth, perhaps she felt the memories, as Daria did, of such better times, falling through the cracks of her fingers, never to be held again.

With one final stroke of her thumb, Elia reached for the babe and placed it in the folds of her swaddling cloth, right by her tiny, beating heart. The locket of a sun and spear glistened on the frayed cloth, inside, a lock of hair cut from two young brother's heads.

It was Elia's locket, custom made, one of three in existence, and forever would be, initialled on the back by the master craftsman who was now dead and gone. It was a gift, from Doran, before she left for King's Landing, he and Oberyn owning the last remaining pair, a lock of their sister's hair buried inside, so, no matter how far the siblings drifted, by land or sea or dragon, in some shape, by hair or spirit, they would always be together. Elia had not taken it off since.

Not until now.

The meaning was not lost on Daria.

Ducking, Elia pressed a quivering kiss to her daughters forehead. Damp with tears, full with love. Against the soft skin, she murmured.

"May life never break you. May strife never bend you. And may love be the only thing that makes you bow. I love you, my daughter. Never forget."

A staggering breath in, a stealing of a babes sweet scent, a sniffle, one last hard, enduring kiss, and a sharp yank away. She met Daria's gaze and nodded, refusing to peek down at the babe again. Shuffling her own cloak, Daria slipped the child beneath the folds and, a brief moment of hesitation later, began to descend down the maze of passageways to the bottom most levels of the Holdfast, where, in the crypts, a sewage channel would lead to the Blackwater docks. A secret corridor only Prince Daemon had known, often exploiting it to meet clandestine his niece, Rhaenyra Targaryen, to start a rebellion.

A passageway Queen Rhaella had told Elia of.

Daria only glanced back once.

Elia was there, lingering in the silhouettes and gloom, watching her babe be smuggled away.

Three torturous turns of the sun later, she was dead.

Seven turns after, Daria died too.

* * *

**Early 283 AC: Maegor's Holdfast; King's Landing.**

**No One's P.O.V**

Elia had the last victory, even if she did not have the last breath. Red and gold soldier's, on the whim of Tywin Lannister, flooded Maegor's Holdfast, daggers ready and keen in the chaos of a sacking.

They found neither Aegon nor Rhaenys.

Only Elia.

The Prince was safe, carted away by ship over the Narrow Sea to the exiled Sir Jon Connington in Essos.

The Princess was protected, hidden in a cloak, running for the lands of her mother across the Boneway of the Red Mountains.

Ser Amory, leading the men tasked with the death of the children, feared his Lord lieges anger should he come back empty handed. Two scullery children from the kitchens, around the age the prince and princess would be, fit his chore.

A hazardous and hasty change of clothes, a brutal smash of a fist and pummel, throwing the corpses to the Mountain to further mangle, with the promise of letting the beast of a man do what he wished with Elia Martell, and the slit of a milk maids throat sealed the lie.

Not even the Gods could recognize their faces.

They wrapped them in velvet, red to hide the blood, and took their prize to Tywin.

Robert Baratheon praised them.

The Wolf Lord howled and stormed from the keep.

Tywin…

Tywin smiled and bade them work well done in front of the new King, but cornered them alone after.

The youngest, a contorted heap now, was not dark enough, he said, to be the Martell Targaryen, even if the Baratheon was easily fooled. He ordered them from the city on horseback, ordered them to roads to Sunspear, for where else would the babe be secreted away, and promised, should they come back empty handed this time, they would no longer have hands to be empty.

_Do not make me appear a liar, Sers. _

And so they rode, and so they searched, and so they found…

* * *

**October 1980: Forbidden Forest; England.**

**Daria Sand's P.O.V**

The cold breeze of the forest did nothing to ease the sense of smothering air. Her clothes and skin, slick with sweat, clung to her skin in chaffing patches. She was vaguely aware of the rinse of warmth at her stomach, scattering out. She stumbled and ran, a babes wail echoing from her bosom.

And she ran.

And she ran.

And she ran.

Like the dunes of Dorne battering the walls of Sunspear, crashing, tumbling, rolling, she ran. Her long dark hair, broken free from braid, lank with dirt, whipped behind her like a horse tail as she flung herself over sharp rocks, around heavy trees, and down jagged inclines.

She stumbled.

She got up.

And she ran.

Daria had long since lost herself, unsure where she was now, or where to head. She did not know what time it was, what day it was, or how long she had been running for. She only knew she must not stop.

She had to run.

And run.

And run.

They had been so close. So very, very close. She had seen Sunspear on the horizon, the figures of the Tower of the Sun and the Sandship proud on the cobalt sky, the fat bellied Threefold Gate to the city, and they had nearly made it home, the babe and her.

And then she had to pass through the Shadow city, built against the walls of Sunspear, a labyrinth of narrow alleys, homes, and bazaars.

Daria noticed they were being followed two clicks into the city.

She tried to lose them, whoever they be.

She tried to run.

She _did _run.

They followed.

She ran harder.

They ran faster.

So many.

One.

Two.

Three.

Seven.

Seven men, and there, beneath their dusty cloaks, a roaring lion.

She made it only to the Orange Grove, on the very outskirts of Sunspear, when they caught her. A man with a dagger, pain, so much pain, someone yanking the babe from her arms as she fell to her knees, her yell, her cry, her scream as she fought to take the babe back, clawed and bit and kicked and-

The wail of Rhaenys as a dagger was raised above her-

A scream, tearing from her own throat, an outstretched hand as she was kept away, and-

"No!"

A flash of blinding light.

The aroma of magic in the air.

The men were gone.

Rhaenys safe… Abandoned on the ground.

Magic…

Not hers.

Daria was not strong enough for that kind of magic.

She did not-

_The babe. _

The little Martell, brushed with ice, and a heart of-

No time.

Daria teetered, she plucked up the babe.

She ran.

And ran.

And ran.

The trees were different now. Dark and ominous, long away from the sweet smell of fresh oranges. Still, she ran.

She ran.

And ran.

And ran.

And _bled. _

Tears blinded her as she turned a corner, dipped into the shrouded undergrowth, stumbled and slipped. She crashed to the ground, gasping for breath, gasping for life, grasping at the babe still wailing at her breast.

She could not see the stars from her back, only the dark forest, closing in on her, fading and aching and-

Every breath was a fight uphill, every pound of her heart another battle won, and time, precious time, meant nothing as she, slumped to the ground, tried so hard to move, just move, she was so close, so close to home, so close to keeping her promise and-

"Hello! Is anybody there?"

Rhaenys wailed louder, and fear seized Daria.

Was it the men who-

No.

A woman's voice, soft, lyrical, concerned.

A flicker of light, pale as the moon, slinking out the trees.

Edging closer, and closer and closer and-

"Merlin! You're bleeding! James, quick, head back to the castle, get Madam Pomfrey!"

The echo of running feet.

A gentle hand on her shoulder, another at her stomach, pressing, urgent.

Daria blinked and saw red hair, kind eyes, green like jade.

"Just hold on, okay? Help is coming. We'll get you fixed up in no time, alright? You just hold on for me. That's it. Breathe. In, out, in, out, come on, in, out, in, out. Please, breathe… Breathe… Breathe…"

It burned.

Everything burned.

Daria reached down and clasped the hand on her stomach, pulling it away. It was too late, she knew. Too late and too little and everything _burned. _But not for Rhaenys.

Precious Rhaenys.

Elia's faith in her would not be for nought.

With the last of her strength, Daria shifted the babe in her arm, still hidden in her cloak, held her out, trembling and quivering and shivering, bathed in her own blood.

"Her name… Rhaenys… Rhaenys Targ-… Please… Please… Take… Home… Take her home… Sunsp-… Take her home… Protect… My Rhaenys… Protect… Home… Go home…"

A bout of coughing seized her, wet and warm with blood, and the woman, the woman with such kind eyes, took the child if only to stop her from being dropped by Daria.

"I Will. I promise, but none of that. Shush now. Rest and breathe. James will be back any moment now, you'll see. Everything will be fine… No… No… Don't close your eyes… Don't-"

Daria tried, she really did, but sluggishly they shut, never to open again. She saw the Water Gardens, glistening in the sun. And oh, there _they_ were, little Elia, splashing in the cool, crisp ponds. Boisterous Oberyn, climbing a tree. Studious Doran, sitting in the shade, tome open in his lap and she could hear the birds calling her home, sweet home, and-

They sang to her, the children she loved so, and it was summer once more, and well and warm and-

For the last time she ran, ran to them, picked up little Elia and twirled her above her head and, Oberyn laughed, begging for a turn, Doran shuffled over and she was _home _and-

A sputtering breath like bones rattling, one last lingering burn, and-

Still.

Silence.

The whine of a motherless babe into the lonely night.

James Potter, Albus Dumbledore, and Madam Pomfrey came too late.

Lily Potter rose from the ground, shaky on her own legs, twigs and leave sticking to her jeans, rocking something, a bundle, in her arms. She glanced up, blood crusting at her hands, rusting her fingernails, a dead woman at her feet, and met her husbands eye.

It was not the squawk of an injured bird or Phoenix as the pair originally thought.

Not a unicorn with a broken leg.

It was something much more.

"It's… James, it's a baby… A baby girl…"

* * *

**Next Chapter Synopsis: **Rhaenys Potter has had a hard life. An orphan twice over, and scorned by her adopted aunt and uncle, she's never had much of anything. Love, food, games or joy. But then she goes to Hogwarts, discovered magic, and everything seemed to fall into place… Until she accidentally hatched a dragon egg Hagrid won in a pub bet, a feat that the Wizarding world had not seen for a millennium.

Afraid the Ministry would take the only thing truly hers away, the only thing she's ever had, she did the only logical thing a lonely, frightened, eleven-year-old could.

She put the hatchling in a bucket, plucked up her wand, and she ran like the wind.

How she ended up in the desert, she had no bloody clue…

* * *

**Story Notes (Ignore if you wish): **

Part one: When the Smiles Died, is now finished! Part two: Fierce Fights and Swifter Flights, is coming up. Like part one, this is will around four-five chapters long, focused entirely between Rhaenys P.O.V and Oberyn's P.O.V, so yes, the Martells are finally coming.

I know there is still a lot of questions regarding Daria Sand, ones that have not been answered, but this is purposefully done. The character of Daria Sand will be explored throughout this fic, in little pieces. She was always, since I started mapping out this fic, going to die very early, but that doesn't mean her story is truly over.

As you know, the dragon Rhaenys takes is Norbert, or Norbertta as it is later discovered. I did this because one: this breed of dragon fits with a Martell like Rhaenys. The Norwegian Ridgeback is the only breed, in Potterverse, to be venomous. A bit like a snake, really, and I thought it would fit well with both her Targaryen side, and her Martell blood. Two: Norwegian Ridgeback is likely a play on Rhodesian Ridgeback, a South African hunting dog used, among other things, to hunt _lions_. Taken straight from the Potter Wiki lol. I think this, of course, speaks for itself lmao.

I've obviously messed around with Dragon law in the Potterverse in this, and this will all be explained in the coming chapters. Norbert's name will, too, eventually change, as the hatchling will only be called Norbert for a chapter or two by Hagrid. I'm still debating on what name to give the dragon, or to have Rhaenys give the dragon, though I do have a soft spot for Elia, as I like the poetry of, if only still in name, Elia is protecting her daughter still. That said, I am happily open to suggestions, **so if you have an epic dragon name, send it on over! **(If you want credit for the name, I will happily give that too.)

I'm also deliberating on whether keeping Aegon (Yes, Aegon is actually Aegon in this fic and not a Blackfyre, Jon will be Jaehaerys in this when we get to that point) by himself, or adding him into the pairing with Jon and Rhaenys. I keep flipping on it, so I thought I would ask you guys. So, what do you think? **Add Aegon or keep him away from the pairing?**

* * *

Well, that is it for today folks! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thank you to everyone who has followed, favourited and reviewed! Remember, if you have a moment or two spare, don't forget to drop a review! Until next time, stay beautiful! ~AlwaysEatTheRude21


	5. Fierce Fights And Swifter Flights I

**PART TWO: FIERCE FIGHTS AND SWIFTER FLIGHTS I**

* * *

**MAY 1987: Little Whinging, Surrey; Under stairs Cupboard. **

**Rhaenys Potter's P.O.V**

In a sealed cubbyhole, in a tiny town in Surrey England, where nothing out of the ordinary ever took place, a page crinkled beneath a fingertip, tracking the lines of ink and paint like rivers on a map. Arching over thorny spines, brushing over barrelled belly, dipping under broad wings, and sweeping over shimmering scarlet scales.

By the crack of light seeping under the bolted door, the roaring red dragon seemed to glow in a cerise inferno, belly scales of hewn gold and amber eyes glinting. Gently, with more care than the crumpled page had been wrenched free from its book, little Rhaenys Potter placed the tattered sheet on the edge of her rusted cot.

There was only four words on the page, inscribed at the bottom in a sweep of black cursive, and vowel by vowel Rhaenys savoured them on the tip of her tongue.

She had never tasted anything so sweet before.

_Kilgharrah: The Great Dragon. _

Dudley, her pudgy, plump cousin, was going to be angry when he discovered she had ripped the page out of his book: Camelot and the tales of King Arthur. It didn't matter if he did not read, Dudley _hated_ reading. It did not matter that he had never picked up the book since his aunt had given it to him for Christmas, and he had thrown it over his shoulder, where it had skidded under the sofa. And it would not matter that she had damaged the book, whether he liked it or not. It was _his, _and Rhaenys knew, knew better than most, she was not allowed to touch Dudley's things.

Aunt Petunia would be angrier still that Rhaenys had dared gone upstairs and sullied Dudley's room with her grubby fingers. She was only allowed upstairs to collect laundry, and for the odd twenty-minute wash in a cold shower. She had to stay in her cupboard. She had to keep quiet. She definitely wasn't allowed to touch Dudley's things, and never, never, _never, _was she to ever break anything.

Tearing a page out a book wasn't really breaking something, was it?

Uncle Vernon would be angriest, if but she simply existed and, by a damaged book of all things, loathing reading as much as his son, he was reminded of that small fact.

Yet, none of that mattered.

Not a thing.

Not in this locked cupboard, starving, left in the dark, alone, because here _it _was.

_A dragon. _

Rhaenys Potter, with all the belief and wonder only a small child could have, with every beat of her heart and dream she dreamt, believed in magic. And if magic was real, then, of course, by logic, dragons must too.

It made perfect sense to a six-year-old Rhaenys.

She dreamt of them sometimes. Great beasts of the sky, leather and scale and talon, soaring above her head, thundering like a storm. There would be so many, swarming, just above her, that it was no longer day, but a gleaming myriad of shining hide and burning comets, a northern light of smoke and fury.

If she was lucky, very lucky, she sometimes dreamt she rode one, right into the clouds, up and up and up and up, and away and away and away and away and-

Rhaenys Potter dreamt of dragons, she dreamt and dreamt and dreamt and _wanted. _She wanted so bad that it hurt. Hurt more than the hunger. Hurt more than the dark damp cupboard. Hurt more than the bruises on her arms, or the scabs on her knees, or the split lip. It hurt, and she wanted, and she wanted, and it hurt.

To Rhaenys Potter, so young, too young, that was life.

Wanting and hurt.

Yet, in her dreams, in those magical few hours, there was no pain or want. There was only dragons and freedom. They were out there, they _had_ to be, they were out there somewhere, waiting just for her to find, ones just like Kilgharrah, wild and free and untamed, and one day…

One day, Rhaenys would find them, and she would be just as they were.

No one starved a dragon. No one beat a dragon. Dragons wouldn't be so easily padlocked in a flimsy cupboard. No one yelled or screamed or snubbed a dragon. No one left a dragon, alone, scared in the dark… _Forgotten_. There would be no Vernon, Petunia or Dudley, no picking weeds in the rain, or scavenging half eaten scraps from the kitchen bin when her aunt wasn't looking.

One day, it would only be her, the endless sky, and a great dragon.

And chocolate. All the chocolate she could eat.

And a real blanket. Those heavy, dense ones that seemed so warm. Perhaps it would be made of fur. Thick fur of white, and she would never leave it.

And lamps, so many lamps, glass lamps of every colour, so she would never have to squat in the dark again.

Folding the page lovingly, careful and cautious beyond her years, Rhaenys stuffed it under her threadbare pillow, more case than cushion, chewed at the end to tatters by a house mouse.

It _could _have been a rat, but little Rhaenys didn't want to think of that.

A house mouse sounded better.

One day, she would have the thickest pillow, and she would share it with her dragon and-

The clink of a bolt sliding open. Before Rhaenys could drive away from the door, huddle in a corner, the cupboard swung open, the bright light momentarily blinding her as a bony hand, brittle and stiff and merciless, reached in, snatched her by the scruff of her shirt, and with one good yank, rooted her out of her closet.

"Get to work, girl! Breakfast, now. Don't make me ask again. And don't you dare let it burn."

With a sharp shove, Rhaenys stumbled towards the kitchen, her legs numb and shaky from sitting so long. The necklace beneath her shirt bobbed, a spine of the golden sun jabbing her hollow belly. Aunt Petunia had tried taking it from her since she could remember, snatching it from her neck, forcing her to hand it over, throwing it out the window, in the bin, burning it. However, every morning she woke up, and there it was, around her neck again.

Petunia stopped trying last week.

As she had stopped trying to shave her curls off, particularly the white streak at her temple that her aunt insisted outed her 'freakish' nature.

Petunia would take her lilac eyes too if she could, Rhaenys thought.

Stuck between the door of the hallway and kitchen, Rhaenys hazard a glance over her shoulder, to her aunt bathed in paisley and pearls. For a flash, the moment between one heartbeat and the next, Rhaenys thought of her stolen picture. She thought of Kilgharrah, the Great Dragon that sent Merlin himself running.

Kilgharrah wouldn't be shoved. Kilgharrah wouldn't be scared. She would roar, and breathe great swathes of fire and knock down the house with a beat of her wing, and-

For a moment, one mad flash of wrath, Rhaenys wanted to be Kilgharrah. She would roar at her aunt and charge, and kick and claw, and bite and scratch and scream and-

Petunia raised her hand, only an inch, palm flat: less likely to bruise Petunia had learned, fingers tense, ready to strike, and Rhaenys, little Rhaenys, did none of what she thought, not so much as a meow.

She flinched.

Flinched and scuttled into the kitchen to begin to fry the bacon, the ding of pots and pans echoing out.

Rhaenys was no Kilgharrah. Rhaenys was no dragon. Rhaenys Potter was nothing but a scared six-year-old child, with blue and purple bruises in the shapes of hands, knobbly scabbed knees, too small and too thin, in clothes ten times her size, who was terrified. So terrified.

She was a child who dreamed and nothing more.

Perhaps one day, she swore, she would have dragon. Perhaps one day she would fly. Perhaps one day, she would have fire of her own. One day, she would be free and she would have food, and blankets and the biggest of pillows. One day… One day.

Just not today.

* * *

**Early 285 AC: Sunspear: Bedchamber**

**Oberyn Martell's P.O.V**

A finger stroked over the well-worn ink, looping over vowels, snaking over consonants, and flitting over tear stains. It froze at the bottom, dared not touch, four letters that bore so much anguish.

_Elia. _

The slight letter was old now, perfectly loved and perfectly despised in equal measure. Battered by age, and season, and moments of passion. He loathed it. He cherished it. He never wanted to see it again. He never wanted to stop reading.

This letter, with blotches of fading ink, ripped and crisp in corners from moments where he would go to burn it, tear it apart, only to change his mind, was the last thing Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell had received from his sister, and between the lines of words, leaking from the ink, he thought Elia's ghost smiled at him. It was only five rows long. A letter telling of his nieces imminent arrival in Sunspear ten-and-four days hence.

A letter that never came to be.

Two years had come to pass, as obstinate as time was, and no one, from Squire to Prince, had either seen Daria Sand or the Princess Rhaenys since. Those who did know of this letter, as few as those numbers where and all confined to Three-fold Gate of Sunspear, had all come to their own ending.

Some murmured the pair had not made it out the Red Keep, and their bones lay disregarded at the foot of a stairway, hooked in the first moments of their great flee.

Others whispered that the Boneway had slain them, as it did many a traveller, and the rough winds had stripped their corpses of their flesh, pecked by bird and sand fox alike.

A few muttered, the rare ones, contended they had absconded to Sothoryos, where they be still. Biding their time to return when the Baratheon King grew weakest.

Oberyn assented to none of these theories. There was too little proof of anything. Oberyn only knew the search bands Doran and he had unleashed in Dorne, so many in those first years, had barely brought back one hint.

A fisher woman in the Shadow City who, through a healthy bribe of coin, told of a mother and a babe who had rushed through her stall, knocking over a barrel of mackerel, chased by seven hooded men.

From there the trail died.

Oberyn sighed and shifted in his seat, the silk slip draped around his waist falling. A spluttering tallow candle perched at the border of his desk the only light to read by in this murky, bleak night.

A hand came from the dark, nimble fingers skulking slickly over his neck, dancing down his chest, and veering over his taut stomach to rest serenely at his hip. A head of dusky locks, as dark as a ravens wing, came to rest by chin on his shoulder, peppering his nose with the fragrance of spiced water lily and desert plume.

"By your sullen sigh, and your midnight dash from my bed, I assume the men have returned? What news do they bring?"

Ellaria Sand's voice was as bright as the candle before them, smoky and cloying, as sweet as her scent, and it brought Oberyn more comfort than he could ever speak of. Lolling in his chair, he bowed his head to press a sharp nose into her hair, seeing nought but the speckled sky of stars from his open window from over the curve of her scalp.

"As they have always done, they bring us_ nothing_. Not even a hair."

His own hand lifted from the wood of the desk, slipping back to thread through Ellaria's, squeezing. He did not need words. Not here. Not with his love.

She always knew, his sand sprite.

She sighed, heavy and long, as she pressed into his back, her naked form pushing into his side, her rounded stomach full and beautiful as all ripe fruit are.

"Perhaps next time, my love."

Anger seized him as it could often do. Deadly. Silently. He detached himself from Ellaria with a huff, striding to his glassless window, peering deep into the night. The stars were brilliant this far south, countless surges of light. And somewhere underneath this canopy of cold light, below this very sky, his niece was, perhaps, gazing at the same stars.

He need only find her.

To do so, he needed Doran to remove the stick from his-

"There will be no next time if our Prince Doran does not reinstate the searches. He ordered their halt not an hour past. Two years, he said, is enough. If we have found nothing now, we never will, and each party we send out only raises suspicion on what we could possibly be searching for. Word spreads, he says, as if I of all people do not know this. I never knew my brother to have such frail hope. To be such a cad. How could he-"

Anew, Ellaria came to his side in a flutter of soft skin, beauty, and kindness. Kindness he, perhaps, did not deserve. She held his hand between her deft fingers, stroked thumb over knuckle, soothing his venomous temper in the way only she could.

"Mayhap he has not given up hope so much as he has turned himself wholly to it. Perhaps he believes Rhaenys will find her own way home. And if she is anything like her impetuous and impulsive uncle…"

She smirked at him.

"Then I hold no doubt she will. You need only faith, my love. She is a Martell, these are the sands of Dorne, this is her _home_, and if she had once made it as close as the Shadow City, it is only a matter of time before she is in these halls. Yet, careful we must all tread. If we query the wrong man, one who can piece together our inquiries, it will not be long, I fear, that word will flutter back to the Baratheon's ear. Rumour that the Martells are searching for a Princess who should be, to the King, _dead_, is damning in these times. Our only hope is, if this is true, and the Lannister Lord failed in his butchery that night, he is as likely as us to try and keep these rumours from his dear Stag King."

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps, though Oberyn would never admit it, Doran was right. Their many searches had turned up nothing but rumour and gossip. If they pushed much further, people would, as they always did, _speak_. They would let slip a question asked, and, before much could be done, word would slink back to the Baratheon King of the search for a Princess thought dead and buried in King's Landing.

The _why _the Stag King would inevitably ask could only lead to war.

Nevertheless, Oberyn Martell was not a man made to sit on his hands and wait. What if they-

_You need only faith, my love. _

Faith.

He need only faith.

Faith his sister's death was not in vain.

Faith his niece lived still.

Faith she would find her way home, where she belonged, one day.

Just not this day.

And if this came to pass, if Rhaenys walked the Water Gardens, if she truly had been smuggled from Maegor's Holdfast successfully and the crushed corpse the Lion gave the King was nothing but a mummers ploy, perhaps Elia had gotten Aegon out too, though her letter made no mention of his nephew.

_It wouldn't. _

If both children had been rustled to freedom, it was safer to keep their respective escapes as close to the chest as possible, so if one were to be discovered, the other wouldn't fall to the same fate.

Oberyn would put nothing passed his sweet sister, who had a sharper mind than most first believed, she was always-

_Was. _

Grief tangled in his chest, a squirming orb of sorrow and sadness and regret.

It was the first time Oberyn had thought of his sister as _was_ and not _is._

As gone and not here.

Past not present.

Elia… Sweet, sweet Elia was gone and-

_No. _

Elia was not gone. Not fully. Her daughter was out there, somewhere. Gazing at the same stars he did. If Rhaenys lived, Elia lived.

Rhaenys was alive.

_Hope. _

Oberyn had hope, and there was nothing in this wretched world that was more potent than that.

Sluggishly, he turned to his paramour, slipping arms around a plump waist, fingers stroking the stretch of skin much like he had the letter. There was no death to be found here, only life. Brilliant, wonderful life.

"Enough of my woes. How are you and the babe? Well?"

She positively scowled at him.

"He is well enough to kick me awake."

Oberyn grinned.

"_She_."

Ellaria cocked a brow at him.

"You desire a girl?"

His chuckle was as dusky and deep as the night.

"_Only_ daughters. As a second son myself, I know what trouble boys can bring their fathers. But daughters? Yes. I can think of nothing sweeter."

A fourth daughter rang delightful, the first with Ellaria. As his hand rested on the swell of her belly, her own came up to cradle his jaw, tender and warm, dark eyes glittering.

"And we shall call her Elia, so _when _Rhaenys comes home, though she may not know her mother, she may come to know her namesake."

_When. _

Not if, when.

Ellaria always knew just what to say.

Oberyn kissed her, fast and fierce and passionate, hope burning bright in his heart like a night sky full of stars.

* * *

**August 1989: **

**Rhaenys Potter's P.O.V**

The dreams started three years ago, on the eve of her seventh birthday, and Rhaenys Potter never remembered a single one come morning. They always started the same. A dark, primal place, acres of old forest untouched for thousands of years, a gloomy castle rising around it.

Rhaenys scampered through the woods.

Tall evergreens armoured in grey-green needles, great oaks bowing, hawthorn and ash snatched at her clothes, pulling and tugging and tripping.

She shouldn't be _here._

This wasn't _her_ forest.

Where was the sand and sea and scorching sun?

Where was _her _home?

She always ran, and she always ended up in the very centre where she saw _it. _It stood there, a pale titan. She could smell it, earthy and brooding, the stench of time itself, and the red leaves of the Weirwood were a blaze of flame amongst the green.

Weirwood… How did she know that word?

_North. _

She was in the north.

This was Winterfell.

The Godswood.

How did she know that?

Before the Weirwood laid a pool of black water. Crisp and cool and bottomless.

She shouldn't be here. This wasn't-

A boy was sitting upon a winding root, staring into the dark pond. He couldn't be much younger than herself, perhaps a year and a half at a push, a few months in reality. He was graceful and quick, lean like an arrow, even smothered in his thick furs. His face was long, narrow too, with a pop of dark brown curls coiling around his too-big ears, ears he hadn't grown into yet, grey eyes so dark they almost looked black.

_Like the dark pond. _

He was a solemn boy, solemn and cautious, _sullen_, the type quick to sense a slight.

He looked up, right at her from across the pond, and suddenly she remembered.

_Jon. _

This was Jaehaerys, though he insisted his name was Jon, and she had been here before.

She was dreaming again.

She was always dreaming of this place and-

Not always this place. Sometimes it was somewhere else, somewhere hot and heavy with whipping winds, a great boat, open seas, and a boy with blue hair, kind eyes and a harp, who taught her how to tie knots and climb a mast, and would laugh and twirl her above his head as she-

Rhaenys smiled brilliantly.

Jon smiled back.

"Race you up the tree."

She was already off, darting around the pool, swift on her feet, swifter than Jon, climbing and clambering as he frowned at her back.

"That is cheating!"

Her voice echoed back from the canopy of crimson leaves.

"Stop scowling and start climbing, wolf-boy! I've nearly won already!"

She could hear his voice trailing her as he climbed.

"Pick up a sword, and say so anew."

Of course, Rhaenys wouldn't. Jon cheated in sword fighting, or so she claimed heatedly. He used his added height and weight when they played battle with the sticks on the floor as shields and blades. He was better at fighting, and hiding too, he always found her in hide and seek, but she was faster in chase and better at chess, and, apparently by the tell-tale echo of a branch snapping, climbing too.

Both were awful at swimming, unlike the boy with blue hair-

"Rhaenys play nice. Jon do not urge her on. She does not need your encouragement to fight."

Both children snapped around, wide-eyed, and there he was.

The boy with blue hair, dressed in breeches, older than them both, shirt mussed by slumber and-

"Aegon!"

The pair crowed as they dropped from the tree like ripe fruit, dashing for the taller boy, shouting over each other.

"She was cheating again! She never plays fair and-"

"I wasn't cheating! I was _winning! _Jon's just a sore loser who doesn't-"

"I am not! You gave me a brittle branch on purpose the last time-"

"Yes you are! You stuck your leg out and tripped me when I was winning the race around the pond-"

Before words could roll to a brawl, which, when it came to Jon and Rhaenys, was always a possibility, gentle hands were laid upon the pairs shoulders, and the two excitable children blinked up to the soft gaze of the taller boy.

"I believe you both need to cool off."

Jon, always the quietest out of the three, frowned, even now hearing the underlying promise, even as Rhaenys, forever the loudest, did what she did best of all.

Argue.

"It's not _me_ who needs to pull their head out the snow. Jon-"

Suddenly, Aegon smiled, and it was sharp and keen and pocked with mischief. The hands tightened, wrapped in fur cloak and tatty t-shirt and, abruptly, the children were airborne, flapping in the wind like baby birds in first flight, in a shout of indignation, from Jon, and a squawking cry of laughter from Rhaenys.

The waters of the black pond engulfed their voices.

They broke the surface with a splutter and splatter.

"Get him!"

Aegon was already chuckling, plunging away into the underbrush of the forest, as Rhaenys hauled herself from the pond, bending on the bank to stretch her hand out for Jon to take as he splashed to keep his head above water.

His fingers enveloped around hers, alabaster crashing and weaving with bronze like foamed waves lapping at golden sands.

When Rhaenys awoke in her cupboard, shivering in her holey blanket, she thought she herd the faint laughter of children in the night, but-

Gone.

The dream was gone, as all her dreams were lately.

She remembered nothing.

Although, flexing her tingling fingers, she thought she felt the ghost of a hand clasping hers before, with the rise of the sun, that too was stolen.

She must have laid on it funny.

* * *

**Late 294 AC: Sunspear: Water Gardens**

**Ellaria Sand's P.O.V**

The Water Gardens were situated on the cusp of a beach seeping in from the Summer Sea, three leagues west from the bustle and blare of Sunspear and the coastal road. Gleaming pale pink in the sizzling sun from the marble paves and courtyard, the Water Garden's shimmered like a tiara nesting in silt.

And as Ellaria Sand made her way down the terraces overlooking the glittering pools and fountains, sheltered by the dense foliage of the overhanging blood orange trees, and through the fluted pillar gallery into the Gardens themselves, she thought, truly believed, there was no place more lovely in all of Westeros.

With the hot days and muggy nights, salt breeze ruffling hair and cooling sweat sodden skin, and so many fountains to admire and play in, children from all stations, bastard and trueborn alike, were sent to the Water Gardens to foster, where they played together at the beach skimming rocks or dipping waves, splashing in springs. Heavy with child as Ellaria was, with her fourth child, Elia, Obella and Dorea welcomed the chance to run free without their mother tottering on swollen ankle after them to curb their more… Reckless ideas.

However, their mother's current state did not stop them from _trying_ to find trouble_. _

They were entirely Oberyn's children.

Most days she felt blessed by this.

On others, such as that day, she cursed it to the skies.

"Please! Dorea has never gone picking before, and we have! We can show her how, and we promise, we will come back as soon as our baskets are full. Mother…"

Her precious Elia begged at her knee from where Ellaria sat, plump and pinked like an overripe berry at the edge of a fountain. The palm leaf in Ellaria's hand swished like the tail of an angry cat, forming a trifling waft of hot air to lap at her clammy neck and face, gazing down to the open face of her eldest daughter.

Elia had her dusky hair braided back that day, and her dark eyes glinted under the unforgiving sunlight. Eyes identical to her fathers. She had likewise taken his wild, and occasionally haughty, temperament. Lady Lance, her sisters were beginning to call her, for the lance she used when she rode her black filly.

"Please!"

Ellaria shook her head, and even this small movement, as full as she was with babe, with this everlasting heat pressing in on her, stole what little strength she had. On any other day, she would take the children herself. Yet, the grove rose on the fringes of the Water Garden Palace, beyond the Three-Fold Gate, and Ellaria, struck by exhaustion as she was, could not make the winding walk. Neither would she let her young children go alone, despite how much they huffed and puffed and blustered.

"Perhaps another day, my love. Let us rest for a bit and enjoy the sun, yes?"

As if sent by the Seven to aid her, a voice suddenly picked up behind them, silky and salty.

"Girls, are you pestering your mother?

They whirled around, her three little girls. Perhaps, by the kicking to her ribs, soon to be four. They quickly spotted their father strolling towards them. He was a tall, slender and graceful man. Age was beginning to creep in, lining his saturnine face, though the brilliance of his black gaze was never lessened by the arched dense brows hooding them. His hair, even now, so lustrous and dark, was only speckled with a few silver streaks dappled at his widow's peak.

And he was not alone.

Obara was a big-boned woman closing in to her thirtieth year. Long legged, with close set eyes and the same rat-brown hair of her mother that she had taken to tying into a knot, she strode beside her father quickly and angrily. She was a prickly fellow. Hot-tempered, she found relief for her simmering temperament in martial pursuits. She wore a mottled sand-silk cloak of dun and gold that day, thrown over brown riding leathers and a men's calf-length tunic. Her belt of copper suns glistened hotly in the high sun.

Beside her stood her sister, Nymeria, five and ten Name Days old. She was so completely… Dissimilar to her sister. Slim and slender like a willow branch, her father's straight black hair was braided away from her scalp. She had his dark eyes too, large and glossy. Her lips were painted a wine red that morning, a wine red currently curving into a sleek smile. Though she had the beauty her elder sister lacked, she was no less deadly. Nymeria, Ellaria knew, was a vengeful woman. That dress, shimmering lilac with a silk cape of cream and copper, hid the dozen daggers she concealed on her person.

The last of the group, who brought up the rear, was a fair girl, golden haired with deep blue eyes. She had dimples blooming in the hollows of her cheeks, and when she spoke it was only ever with a gentle, sweet voice. Nevertheless, Ellaria had learned, you never took her innocent and pious persona truthfully. Tyene Sand was, perhaps, the most treacherous of them all. Though she had, seemingly, taken nothing from her father's appearance, she did have his knowledge and love for poisons. The dress she wore, a clinging pale blue gown of samite with sleeves of Myrish lace, was, no doubt, toxic to the touch.

"Father!"

Ellaria's daughters chanted as they darted past her seated form to haggle their father, squirming like a nest of snakes, Obella taking the lead, voice echoing out across the pool as Oberyn plucked her up and bounced her in the air before settling the child on his hip.

"We only wanted to take Dorea fruit picking in the grove."

Oberyn ruffled her hair languidly.

"Not today, sweet child. Your mother needs rest."

Obara cut in.

"We'll take them. It will give you and Ellaria time to rest out from under the noon sun."

Oberyn shot her a glance over the edge of the water, and Ellaria smiled cheerily at Obara.

"That would be lovely."

Obara gave a sharp nod, a quick up and down tilt of her cut jaw, before she wrangled the squirming Obella from Oberyn's hip, slinging the small child through her arm like she was a sack of flour. Obella merely laughed at her sister's rather surly treatment, flinging and kicking her little legs.

"Come, little sea snakes."

One by one, the younger girls swarmed over to their older sisters like the bees whirring around the dune daisies, tittering and giggling between them. When they left, down the winding Water Gardens path to the orange grove, Ellaria soaked in the silence. She adored every single one of Oberyn's children, she would, if it ever came down to it, lay down her own life for them, and yet…

Eight daughters _were _eight daughters, and may the Mother have mercy on her.

"Elia loved fruit picking. The blood oranges were her favourite."

Grief never really goes away, Ellaria found. Although there were balms to ease the ache, like Oberyn's children, it was a double edged sword for sometimes, rarely, those very children reminded him of what he had lost, of what they, and who, would never know. It was bittersweet, Ellaria thought, the kind of scars grief left on a life. As Oberyn sat beside her, as he leant over and kissed her forehead, and they reminisced and enjoyed the hot Dornish sun, she thought, in a very peculiar way, grief made everything after it a blessing.

* * *

**September 1991: Hagrid's Hut, Hogwarts.**

**Rhaenys Potter's P.O.V**

Rhaenys hand flew into the air, buzzing about her head like it was an angry wasp. Typically, even though she had only been attending Hogwarts for barely three weeks, she was never so engaged in lessons. It was not that she found them incredibly challenging, or boring, or perhaps even complicated, but…

Well, Magic was _real. _

Rhaenys thought she might still be in some form of shock after learning that. Magic was real, and she was a witch and… And… And Magic was _real!_ And if magic was real, as she had believed since she was six, then that could only mean one thing. She had seen Goblins and Elves, and Giants and Pixies, and yet, there was just _one_ thing Rhaenys Potter wanted to see.

Wanted to see so much that she was practically vibrating.

That sunny morning in the Highlands, waving her hand like the bushy-haired Granger girl, sitting with her fellow Gryffindors and Slytherins outside Hagrid's hut for their first Care of Magical Creatures lesson, when the lesson drew to a close and Hagrid asked if anyone had any questions, of course Rhaenys, for the first time since coming to Hogwarts, shot her hand up high into the sky.

Even Hagrid looked partly perplexed by her sudden enthusiasm, as he slowly nodded at her.

"What about dragons? Where are the dragons? Can we see them? Can we touch them? Oh… Can I ride one?"

From somewhere across the classroom, Draco Malfoy laughed at her, grumbling loudly to his equally daft friends, Crabbe and Goyle.

"Where are the Dragons, she asks. _Idiot_. Does she not know anything-"

Hagrid's sharp glare shot at the blond boy promptly shut him up. The quiet would only last as long as the lesson did, Rhaenys knew. As she knew why Draco Malfoy was angry, truly, at her, and it had nothing to do with her turning down his offered hand and preverbal friendship on the Grand Hall staircase.

It was because of the startling white stripe of hair that bled out from her temple and fringe.

Rhaenys heard the rumours whispered about school as good as anyone else. Stories that said she, Rhaenys Potter with her white, white stripe of hair, and her peculiar lilac eyes, and her strange beginnings of being found in the forbidden forest by the Potters, was, in fact, a Malfoy bastard.

It wasn't true, of course, but when had that ever stopped a good gossip?

"Very good question, Miss Potter. Very good. Ten points to Gryffindor."

Draco huffed and crossed his arms, muttering something about Giants and his father. Hagrid turned away from the boy, and faced Rhaenys. His smile was nice. Kind in a way Rhaenys had not known adults _could _be before coming to Hogwarts.

"Dragons exist, aye. But they be mindless beasts. Terrible things, really. Can't control them. The best we can do, to protect ourselves and the muggles, is lock 'em up in conservation camps. That's if the ministry don't kill them for-"

Spotting Rhaenys's suddenly pale face, Hagrid, not too elegantly, switched tactics.

"Well, dragons are tightly observed, and no dragon has been born or hatched in nearly a thousand years. They're dying out, we only have a handful left, and old things they are. More bone than fury or fire now. There's nothing to be scared of."

Rhaenys sagged down into her seat on the grass.

"I'm not scared."

She wasn't. She wasn't scared or concerned or even weary. She was _angry_. Beyond logic, or reason, or anything Rhaenys could name or put a face to, she was angry at this disclosure. The one thing, only one, she had ever wished for and… And nothing.

She should have known better.

Good things never happened to Rhaenys Potter.

Dreams don't come true.

Not for her.

After answering a few more questions, about Gnomes and curriculum and if pixie dust was really from pixies, Hagrid called for the end of the day, and as the children began filing up the hill, back to the castle, one by one, he asked for her to say behind. He only spoke when he was sure they were alone.

"Why don' ye come to my hut this weekend? I think I have something you would like to see."

* * *

**Story Notes (Ignore if you wish)**

So, from consensus, it's pretty split between wanting Aegon added and not. In sight of this, I've decided to just write and see what happens lol. So, Aegon might be joining the pairing, he might not be, it depends how things go. I think it will create a more natural scenario anyway, if I just write and see where it takes me rather than planning everything right down to the T. I hope this doesn't bother anyone too much, but, hey, it's just fanfiction! It's all meant in good fun.

Sorry this chapter took a while to come out, I wanted to map not only the next five chapters, but I wanted to start planning the next bit out too, so I can properly add foreshadowing into early chapters for what's coming. This meant it was a lot of work, because I couldn't publish anything because I've been constantly popping back to add a sentence or two. I do actually put a lot of effort into these strange stories of mine, because I really do wish for people to enjoy them, and I wanted certain things to be mapped out correctly. This might mean extra time between updates sometimes, but I think the end results are a lot better.

We do get some good Jon Snow P.O.V next chapter, as well as more Oberyn and Rhaenys, so I hope you are all looking forward to that!

If you have a spare moment, please drop a few words into the little box down there. They keep the muse from whining. Until next time! Stay Beautiful! ~_AlwaysEatTheRude21_


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